Category Archives: Anxiety

Anxiety Episode #8: While I’m trying to safely wrangle my children into their car seats, I am attacked by a violent, videotaping delinquent.

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Last spring I was standing outside my school at my dismissal post when my assistant principal walked by. She struck up a casual conversation with me which led to her inquiring about whether or not I had heard of something called the “Knock-Out” game. I told her I hadn’t. She then explained, much to my horror, that her husband had warned her of some kind of bizarre and violent game occurring on streets around the country.  

The basic premise of the game is that attackers try to land one sucker punch on an unsuspecting victim, thus rendering the victim unconscious. Heinous, right? Often, these bad guys videotape their actions and later display them online. Oh, and I guess they do this just for fun? 

Initially it sounded to me like the stuff of urban legend. I hadn’t heard of anything like this happening in our community. But when I checked it out, if online media outlets are to be believed, it seemed like a legit thing, trending even, and gaining in popularity at the time.

Shortly after my AP told me about this “game” I was constantly on the lookout for suspicious “Knock-Out” villains. I tried to make sure I was always aware of my surroundings when I was walking about in public spaces.

And then, thankfully, after a short time, I forgot about the atrociousness of it all. 

Until recently, that is. For some reason, the game popped back into my mind. But I only consider it now when I’m in public parking lots trying to fasten my kids into their car seats.

Winter time is the absolute worst for buckling children into car seats. The added bulk of winter jackets, combined with hats and mittens and layers upon layers of warm clothing makes the task daunting, unpleasant, and altogether stressful.

So, onto the parking lot scenario. Lately, I’ve found that when I’m deeply involved in tugging on a stiff sleeve and willing it to slide easily under a strap, I feel very vulnerable. Like that would be the perfect instance—me there struggling in the car with straps and jackets and children’s limbs akimbo—for some ne’er-do-well to come in and drop me right to the ground. 

All too often, I find myself hurrying and looking about, trying to free up the use of my hands on the off chance I need to land my own defensive punch. Passersby probably see my paranoid glances and hurried movements as suspect. Perhaps they imagine I’m attempting a kidnapping. 

Chances of this actually happening—me getting attacked like this—are slim to none, I know. All the same, I will be grateful soon for warmer temps, fewer layers, and easier and quicker access into and out of these damn car seats. 

Anxiety Episode #7: High winds cause flying debris to crash through any window in the car while we are driving, and impale any member of my family.

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My parents watched the girls tonight, along with my niece and nephew, so that Liam and I could have dinner with my sister and brother-in-law. We didn’t realize that some bad weather had begun until we headed outside at the end of our evening together to pick up the girls and bring them home.

While we were inside having dinner, and later playing boardgames and laughing so hard I cried and slightly peed my pants—can laughter bring on labor?—about an inch of snow had covered the cars. Strong winds were causing what little snow had fallen to blow all around us. As we were driving to my parents’ house, I expressed to Liam that the snow didn’t really concern me. Our new van has AWD. It’s the potentially crazy other drivers on the road, and the whipping wind that disturb me. “How so?” he asked.

And then I told him, in my dark mind’s eye, I visualize a jagged piece of lumber or wood, roughly eight inches to two-feet long, being picked up from its resting spot on someone’s fireplace pile, or pick-up bed, and hurling itself, propelled by the wind, toward our car an ninety miles an hour, with enough force to shatter a front windshield or side window, crushing whatever may lie in its path, my family included. It was enough to make me wonder whether we should just sleep at my parents’ and avoid risking the girls’ lives in the storm.

As usual, he assured me I was overthinking things. We would sleep in our own bed. The weather was not that bad. The girls would be fine. No wood would be flying about.

We picked up the girls from an evening of ice cream and Oreos and fun time spent with cousins and grandparents. The drive home was uneventful, unless you count the barking of song requests that came from the nearly four-year-old in the back seat the entire thirty-minute ride.

No one was injured. And we are all sleeping in our own, big, collective bed. Happy Valentine’s Day!

Favorite new hiding place: the puzzle shelf.

Favorite new hiding place: the puzzle shelf (which the girls insist on referring to as the doorwell).

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Our little Valentines. Snuggled up in front of the hideous animal print pillows that came with our cozy couch, and which are so comfortable I can’t bring myself to throw them out. One of these days I plan on sewing covers for them. Don’t hold your breath waiting for it to happen, though.

Toddler Fears

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Almost a year ago to the day, I wrote the following post on a blog I kept just for me, regarding my oldest, Nora, who was almost three at the time it was written.

I remember clearly the first time Nora showed fear. She was probably 14 or 15 months old. We were getting out of the car at our place after driving home one night from my parents’ house. The moon was full and bright and low in the sky. I wrangled Nora out of her car seat, held her in my arms and looked up at the night sky. “Oooh, Nora!” I exclaimed loudly. “Look up at the moon, honey! Isn’t it beautiful?”

She stared up in wonder at the moon, shocked that she should find it there in the sky, in real life, and not just as a two-dimensional crescent or circle on the pages of one of her beloved board books. She promptly began crying and tucked her head into my shoulder, as if I had offended her gravely with my offer to see something so special.

For months after I couldn’t mention the moon on nightly walks around the neighborhood, or on trips in and out of the car, unless I wanted to hear her sob or watch her walk with her head forced down, unwilling to look up and admit that the moon was a real thing, putting out light to brighten the night sky.

Months later, on another drive home from my parents’ place, she said from the safety of her car seat , “Look, mama! It’s the moon!” Apparently, she was ready to make peace with the sliver in the sky. It’s been over a year since that time. Nora still likes to comment on the moon from inside the car, but continues to shy away from watching it on walks up to the porch. Major avoidance. Totally cracks me up.

As she moved further into toddlerhood, there were more concerns to be had. When Liam or I got a headache, a cold, or generally felt less than 100% Nora’s questions offered insight into her worries. “Why mama’s not feeling good? But she’s going to get better, right?” And, when we said goodbye before leaving for work: “You’re going to come back, right?”

And if real life triggers weren’t enough, we’ve dealt with our fair share of fictional encounters too. We have several books at home that have been relegated to the basement because of their “scary” content.

Take, for example, Goodnight Gorilla, a seemingly harmless story about a silly gorilla who steals the zookeeper’s keys and unlocks all of his animal friends. They later sneak into bed with the zookeeper and his unsuspecting wife. She turns out the lights and wakes up moments later when several of the animals wish her good night back. Nora HATED the page (below) with the eyes lit up in the dark. For many nights we had to skip that page, and then we just couldn’t read it anymore at all. It was too traumatic. Six months later, we couldn’t even read another of my favorites, 10 Minutes ’til Bedtime, also by Peggy Rathman, because the same gorilla appears on the pages mid-book. After all that time, she still remembered!

Here’s another image of the kind of illustrated facial expression we have to avoid in our kiddie lit. This one is from Mary Had a Little Lamb. I know, horrific, right? But, because the lamb is being naughty in school and the girl has a surprised expression, it got nixed from the rotation.

Also out (and these are just a select few; there are more): The Napping House (a little boy wears a shocked expression when the flea wakes him up), Goldilocks and the Three Bears (apparently Goldilocks looks too naughty and therefore, is scary), and Lola Loves Stories (actually we can read this one, we just have to skip the page where the stuffed cow gets a boo-boo).

Should I be concerned that my daughter gets so concerned about these things? I don’t know. I get that she is sensitive and already very empathetic. Hmmm…sounds like someone else I know—me. OK, given my anxieties, maybe I should be concerned. We’ll just have to see how this all plays out.

Anxiety Episode #6: Deranged hotel employees abuse their key card privileges and break into my locked hotel room.

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I suspect that when most people enter a hotel room, after they put down their bags and other belongings, they probably take some time to look around the room, and check out the accommodations. They might read the room service menu, kick off their shoes and rest on the bed while flipping casually through TV channels. Some ambitious folk might even begin to hang up or put away clothing. Others might decide to make a cup of coffee or help themselves to an adult beverage from the mini-fridge.

Not me. When I walk into a hotel room—just after I put down my bags—I start looking for escape routes. I scout the room carefully and take note of the positions of beds, doors, and windows. I do this, because I imagine—fear, really—that some drunken, or certifiably loony hotel employee might decide to get it in his head that he’d like nothing better than to use his universal key card and his portable chain-cutter (which he obviously carries with him wherever he goes) to gain entry to my room at 3 o’clock in the morning, just after he’s gotten off his shift, or maybe right in the middle of his shift—depending on his mood—to do me bodily harm.

I take in all of the sensory information I can about my emergency exit options, calculate the risks, and then I decide where I am going to lay my head for the night.

Consider, for example, the following scenarios (FYI—no children are present in these fictitious contexts because that would be too horrifying and absurd):

Scenario #1: My husband and I walk in to our hotel room, which happens to be on a very high floor (so, no real threat of someone gaining access to the room from the outside of the building). In this case, I claim the bed pillow farthest from the door. I do this, because I rationalize that if someone were to force his way into the room, he would likely come upon my husband first, sleeping just slightly closer to the door. This would likely startle my husband, giving me time to wake, come to my senses, and run away, without harm, while Liam engaged in a fight to defend my life.

Scenario #2: My husband and I and one other couple stay in a hotel room with two beds, but on a ground-level floor with at least one window. So, now there is both an internal and an external threat. In addition to the deranged hotel employee with the key card and chain-cutter, there could also be a homicidal maniac on the loose outside, with a tool, such as a crowbar, tire iron, or ax, with which he could shatter the window in a thousand pieces and quickly gain entry to the room. In this case, I would claim the bed pillow that was somewhere in the middle of the room—equidistant from the door threat and the window threat. Again, the same logic applies as before. Someone else would encounter the crazy guy first, simply by their proximity to the break-in entry-point, giving me precious, sufficient time during which to make my great escape.

**It should be noted here, though I think it’s pretty obvious, that neither in the moment, nor afterwards, do I give away any hint that I’m having these twisted thoughts or making these devious plans. I must make my decisions rather quickly, before other individuals lay claim to my chosen safe-spots, but also before they suspect my true, conspiratorial intentions. I’m pretty sure my husband and dear friends would not be amused by my selfish scheming in which they must risk and sacrifice their safety—let’s be honest here, their lives—so that I may live on instead.

Scenario #3: Back to just my husband and I, staying in a room as somewhat described above. Window and door threat are still present, but this time only one bed, and no other couple. I’m totally screwed. If I sleep nearest the door and the creepy chain-cutter dude forces his way in, I’m toast. If I choose the window side and the crowbar-wielding serial killer smashes the glass, I’m dead. This one is a total toss-up. Pillow-roulette, if you will. I make a tough decision, and then offer up a quick prayer that I’ve made the right choice, or better yet, that the night simply passes peacefully. And then I proceed to read the room service menu, kick off my shoes and rest on the bed while flipping casually through TV channels, and help myself to an adult beverage from the mini-fridge.

Anxiety Episode #5: Neighborhood solicitors or other would be criminals force their way into our house to burglar, assault, kidnap and/or murder us.

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Our neighborhood sees a fair amount of people walking its streets, knocking on doors with offers to mow lawns, pave driveways, or repair windows and roofs. Also, there are Jehovah’s witnesses (rarely), and the occasional dudes who are in transition—they’ve found Jesus, they’re many months sober, and they’re preparing to leave the halfway house. Somehow they believe their future success depends on the sale of magazine subscriptions, of which I’m meant to buy several.

Are these people legit? Are they prospecting for real business or just casing houses for potential burglaries? Are they in the (black) market for cute, bright babies? If so, I’ve got a couple I am absolutely NOT wiling to part with.

I always get both nervous and extremely irritated when I see these folks approaching the house. Nervous, because I find them to be highly suspicious, and irritated, because I have not invited them to my home, and therefore, do not welcome their presence. I know, this all sounds very Scroogey and judgy, but I can’t help it.

Usually these types come around when Liam is still at work and I’m home alone with the girls. I go into overly protective mode then and try to meet the strangers just outside the door in sight of other neighbors. Or, if I think I can get away with it, I hide from the windows, and hope they just go away. I’m sure their intentions are good, really, but these “traveling salesmen” creep me out.

On second thought, maybe I should give these people a small glimpse of our living room, so they could see we have little of value worth taking should their motive be burglary. Of course, if they’re looking for doll house furniture, children’s books, random board game pieces, broken crayons, uncapped, dried-out markers, prized coloring pages, and/or a small collection of baby dolls and stuffed ponies, they would soon come to the realization that they had indeed landed at the jackpot house.

I can usually dismiss the fix-it-up peddlers straightaway because we rent our property. We are not able to make the kinds of decisions they want homeowners to make, thus requiring their services. As for the Jehovah’s Witnesses and other reformed types, I will usually just accept some literature kindly, with every intention of trashing it once they’ve walked away. Sorry, but it’s true.

Perhaps I shouldn’t be entertaining these folks at all. It’s probably not wise that I do. They’re so intrusive. I feel the same way about 800-number callers who call many times a day over the course of many weeks and refuse to leave messages on my phone. Get a life!

I know I could probably invest a little time and energy to deter these folks. I could make a bold “No Soliciting” sign and hang it on our front window. Or, a “Beware of rabid attack dog who gets lose from time to time and has been known to break through skin” sign. Or, I could call the police. I’ve also been thinking I might just stand in the window next time and simply shake my head no while simultaneously wagging a finger until the creepers get the message and go away. This seems slightly rude, but could be effective.

In any case I’ve been locking the door obsessively lately, just be safe. In addition to the presence of the neighborhood peddlers, I’ve been worrying about how a local woman was attacked in her home recently and murdered by strangers. I don’t know the specifics of how the bad guys got in, buts it’s enough that I know they did.

Liam likes knowing that I lock the door when he’s not home; it eases his mind to know that I take precautions. However, I think he finds the habitual practice of locking the door to be a little over-the-top once he’s joined us for the night.

Take for example, a common sequence of evening events at our house:

Liam pulls in the driveway after a long day at work. I usually see him coming and go to unlock the door (which I’ve had locked since I walked in from school said goodbye to my mom or to Candace, the girls’ two favorite caregivers). I give him a hug and kiss, welcome him in, and then close and lock the door behind him. He greets the girls. We eat dinner. He may go back outside again to check mail, or empty garbage, so he has to unlock the door. I lock it soon after he comes back in (once or twice I’ve nearly locked him out while he was just making a quick trip to the garage). After dinner he decides to make a fire in the fireplace. We keep our firewood on the porch, so he must unlock the door to go get some. Minutes after he’s come back inside, I notice the door is unlocked and re-lock it, even though I know he’s likely going to need to go back out for more wood in a half hour. A half hour later, as noted, he needs more wood, and so must go back out to the porch, only after he unlocks the door for the fifth time in just under two hours. And so the game of back and forth with the locks continues until we go to bed. Often, he will look at me during these moments and simply shake his head, as if to say: you’re really overdoing things here, woman. Thankfully, he refrains from adding that he thinks I’m bat-shit crazy, and at most will do the shaking head thing and/or sigh.

What? I’ll counter. I’m just trying to keep our family safe.

I think this weekend may be a good time to get started on that rabid dog sign. I really think it might be a game-changer for us.

Anxiety Episode #4: My husband flies through the windshield of the car, leaving me a widow. Alternatively, I fly through the window, leaving the kids motherless and my husband without a wife.

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My thoughts have still been relatively anxiety-free since New Year’s, so I’m reaching back in the memory bank to catalog this one.

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My husband’s family lives in Connecticut, so we take several road trips back and forth there each year. I try to remember to say a silent prayer once we begin each journey to ask for our protection and for the safety of all of the drivers sharing the road with us. Occasionally I forget to do this until midway through the trip, at which point I freak out, and then quickly offer a prayer of thanks we made it as far as we have without our divine force field in place, and one for safeguarding the rest of the way.

The girlies are pretty good travelers (we’ve been lucky in that regard). However, every once in awhile, one or both of them will start to lose it and need some kind of comfort or offering from us. Like most seasoned road-trippers, we try to pack the car full of things we anticipate the kids might need or enjoy—snacks, drinks, books, toys, games, etc. Most of the time we can just pass these things back over the seat, but occasionally one of us—the passenger, not the driver mind you—needs to unbuckle his or her seatbelt to more fully reach around or climb over the seat to provide the attention the girls need. I’ve even gone so far as to breastfeed a child mid-drive, much to the mortification of my husband (he gets a little nervous when I do this in public, never mind flying down the interstate at 70 mph with my top-half somewhat exposed).

When Liam is the one doing the unbuckling and tending to the girls, I go into hyper-alert mode, concentrating on everything around me. I am the most defensive, vigilant driver the highway has ever known. I slow down my usual fast speed. I consult all the mirrors every few seconds, all the while hoping he finishes what he needs to do as quickly as possible. This kind of situation makes me physically uncomfortable and a mental wreck. If he takes too long, I might even scream at him to sit back down and buckle up, and leave the girls to their own devices.

During the moments Liam is out of his seat, unprotected by a safety belt, and in between suspect glances in the mirrors, I have flashes of us being hit by a car (despite my best attempts to watch out for this very thing). We wreck badly and Liam flies out of the front window. The girls and I are OK, but Liam doesn’t make it. In my mind I run through how I am going to comfort the girls in the moment, deal with the horror of tending to Liam, and then quickly—because I can’t dwell on that part too long—the nightmare of raising the girls without their beloved father. Will they even remember him? Will they understand he’s not coming back? Who will walk them down the aisle when they get married?

Inevitably these atrocious thoughts—specifically death of my spouse—always make a little space for a silver lining. We happen to have decent life insurance policies (should I be admitting this online to would be assassins?). So, while I recognize that life without Liam would be terribly sad and unjust, I always find myself thinking: Well, at least there’s money set aside in case a tragedy like this would happen. At least we are prepared.

And then I find myself daydreaming about that large sum of money and all that I could do with it (by this point Liam has usually returned safely to his seat, so it’s okay I’m slightly distracted). I wouldn’t have to go back to work…the girls and I could buy a new house…we could travel around the country—or world even—visiting spectacular places…college funds could be started. And then, I remember that I’ve just buried my dead husband and I start feeling guilty because I’d just been fantasizing about how I’d spend his life insurance fund. Despicable, I know.

In the instances when I’m the one out of my seat, usually perched precariously and uncomfortably over a car seat —often with my shirt half off to unsuspecting cars passing by, and an exposed boob (poor witnesses)—I’m running through the same scenario, but in reverse. What if I’m the one to fly out the window? What will the girls do without a mother? And I without them? Who will help them through puberty? Liam would be at a total loss with this one. Will they even miss me after a year has gone by?

These kinds of thoughts are the absolute worst. They make me so incredibly sad and can actually move me to tears (which is unnatural, right, because in reality nothing has actually happened to me); I can’t dwell on them too long. Still, I find comfort knowing that Liam would do an amazing job, even without me, and of course, he would be set financially for a good number of years. Think of all the great things they’ll be able to do together with that money.

It’s so crazy to me all of the horrors and catastrophes that my mind is capable of imagining. None of my thoughts are rational or based on anything besides my own hidden fears (quick plug here for NPR’s new podcast, Invisibilia—yes, I’ve already tuned in). And how they can bring about such emotion, when in reality all is well and good, is beyond me.

Anxiety Episode #3: Something terrible must have happened to Eric (my brother).

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(The following post was adapted from a journal entry written in 2006, around Thanksgiving. At the time, I was in graduate school in Vermont, but home visiting at my parents’ house. My grandmother lived with my parents then. It should be noted that although she answered the phone from time to time during those years, her hearing was pretty terrible. The story below is a great example of the unfolding events that can happen when I have far too much time on my hands with nothing else to do but let my thoughts run wild.)

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Over Thanksgiving break, I was home for nearly two weeks. During this time, I spent the days reading, walking, visiting with Gram, watching Hallmark Channel movies, and taking care of my nephews. One afternoon, I returned home from a walk to find my grandma sitting at the dining room table doing crossword puzzles. She informed me that while I was out walking, someone had called from Bloomsburg, my brother’s college, and was looking to speak with my mother. I was fine with all of this until she added—in a concerned voice—“I hope Eric’s okay.”

I asked Gram why she said that—was there something the guy had mentioned on the phone that made her worry? She told me that she couldn’t hear clearly on the phone what the man was saying, and that it sounded like he said he lived with Eric. And again she added that she hoped my brother was all right. She had written the guy’s name and phone number down on paper so my mom could call him back. I glanced at it, but didn’t recognize the name.

I shrugged and walked to my room. I was going to leave it at that. But then I thought: Well, what if something did happen to Eric? What if he had an accident of some sort and this man, who maybe lives with Eric, was calling to tell us?

Ever the problem solver, I called Eric. His phone rang and then went to voicemail. No luck there. Next, I called my mom. Naturally, her phone went right to voicemail, as it always does. I’m not sure I know why she even chooses to keep her phone in service these days.

I pondered some more. I figured that if the man was calling from Bloomsburg, maybe he was from financial aid, alerting my parents to the fact that they owed money on his tuition or something. That must be it. Looking for some kind of validation, I got my computer and went to the school’s website. I checked out the teacher/staff directory, and I searched through the names. None matched the name my grandmother had written down.

After a little more back and forth in my mind, I decided to take it upon myself to call the guy back. Even though I knew he wanted to speak to my mother. Who does this kind of thing? Seriously?

Of course, he didn’t answer. I left no message. Obviously. What would I say? Ummm…I’m so and so’s sister. You don’t know me, but I heard you called my house looking to speak with my mom about Eric. If he’s doing fine and the nature of your call is benign, great. No need to call back. I’ll still relay your message. But on the off chance that you have some information about my brother being banged up in a hospital somewhere fighting for his life, could you just call back immediately and let me know so I can somehow be of service? Here’s my cell number. Thanks!

I could tell from the man’s voicemail that it was indeed a cell phone, and not an administrative office phone. Uh-oh. Maybe something really was wrong. I called my dad. He answered. Probably from up in his tree stand in the woods, where he’d been out hunting. I asked him if he’d heard from Eric recently. He hadn’t. He wanted to know why. I began to tell him about the past half hour, and he told me not to worry. He sounded annoyed. He thought the guy might be Eric’s landlord.

I felt only slightly releved after speaking to my father. I was so invested in this mystery caller by this point, I felt I couldn’t stop, couldn’t rest until I knew for sure that Eric was okay.

I thought some more about how I could get to the bottom of this. I tried my mom again. No answer. I looked through my phone and realized I hadn’t used my best lifeline yet—Bianca, Eric’s girlfriend at the time. So, I called her next, and thankfully she answered. I asked her when she last spoke to Eric. She told me it had been over an hour, but she thought he was taking a nap. He hadn’t been feeling well. I asked her if she recognized the man’s name. Was he a roommate, a neighbor? She didn’t know the name. But she told me if she heard from Eric, she’d call, or have him call me.

Finally, I gave up at detecting, and decided to wait it out. Enough was enough. About an hour later, my mom called me, wanting to know what the hell was going on. I explained everything, and she got angry with me. She told me that all of my “investigating” was really none of my business, and that I needed to learn to let things go.

I could only counter with, “Well then why did grandma have to keep saying ‘I hope Eric’s okay?‘“

My mom replied in an exasperated voice, “Because she can’t hear a damn thing on the phone, so what else is she going to say?!”

To which I shamefully replied, “So, well, who’s the guy?” As if I had a right to know at this point.

My dad had been right. The mystery call was Eric’s landlord calling to say simply that he’d received a rent check. Another hour later, I got a text from my brother, who I’m sure had heard from a variety of sources about all of the excitement. It simply read: It was my landlord. Jackass.

What? Can’t an older sister worry about her baby brother?

I think maybe I might have missed my calling. Perhaps I should inquire with local private investigative firms to see if any are hiring. What do you think? 

Anxiety Episode #2: Have the terrorists bombed us again already, or what?

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This past Wednesday, New Year’s Eve to be exact, I had every intention of staying up until at least 10:00 p.m. Bedtime for me is on average at 8:30 most nights, so I thought I was setting a reasonable holiday goal. Liam and I had no plans other than to spend a quiet night in with the girls, a home cooked meal, and some champagne (just a half glass for me!). After we got the kids to bed, I thought Liam and I could watch a movie, or catch up on some stored-up TV favorites.

Instead, I fell asleep with our youngest, probably around 8:22 p.m., while I was putting her to bed. This should come as no surprise to you readers, as this happens five out of seven nights of the week.

Then, a little while later, I heard my oldest protesting to her father about having to go to bed. Since—unlike pregnant me—Liam can still drink plentiful amounts of alcohol and stay up rather late, and (I could tell) had no desire to argue with our nearly four-year-old going on pre-teen, I groggily offered to lie down with her too.

I woke up hours later in my oldest’s bed when the neighbors began setting off fireworks. I guess it’s midnight I thought to myself. At least I got to acknowledge the moment in my sleep-induced haze. I walked back to my own bed, crawled under the covers and proceeded to listen halfheartedly to the celebratory noises. One burst was especially loud and threatening (it even woke up Liam who rarely wakes for anything, least of all a crying child).

This of course got me thinking about gunshots, which of course then got me thinking about bombs, and shortly thereafter, terrorists. Which then led me to wonder about New York City and other big cities and whether the night’s events had passed peacefully or not.

Fearing they hadn’t, I looked at the clock and wondered how long it would take the media to post breaking news if indeed something terrible had happened. Fifteen minutes? Thirty? I willed myself not to check my phone and just go straight back to bed. And then, I grabbed the damn thing anyway and checked first with the New York Times. I was disappointed to find you now have to pay to access the site. Guess it’s been awhile since I visited there. Boston.com yielded no bad news. NPR mentioned the stampede in Shanghai. Why do I insist on reading this stuff at night, before sleep? Or even at all really, since it takes just hearing or reading bad news of some sort to plant the tiniest seed of doubt, or what-if, or it-could-happen-to-me-too in my troubled little mind. Next stop was social media, for surely my friends in cities big and small would be shouting to the Facebookian hills if they were in danger.

Alas, at 12:30 in the morning it appeared the only bad news was taking place in Asia. I offered up a prayer of love and healing for those poor people and their families and one of thanks that mine was OK.

Anxiety Episode #1: My kids burn up in the car while I’m being held at gunpoint and/or having a heart attack

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(much of this entry was taken from a journal I kept this past summer, in early August)

According to the dictionary of Google, anxiety is a feeling of worry, nervousness, or unease, typically about an imminent event or something with an uncertain outcome. I have anxiety. I suspect I always have, but it has gotten worse as I’ve gotten older. Maybe it’s because I am a parent now. I’ve experienced the fullness and the joy that comes with having and loving children beyond all reason. I’ve become more vulnerable, susceptible to dark thoughts that creep in from time to time, suggesting that something awful could at some point, on any given day, happen to the little ones I love and cherish.

Anxiety is such a heavy word. It makes me sigh just thinking about it. I prefer, in more light terms, to think of my anxiety as thought preparedness. You know, like worst-case scenario planning. It’s like these bad thoughts come into my head, I dwell on them for a little, either dismiss them straightaway or see them through to their terrible end, and then maybe shed a tear or two, or shake my head at the irrationality of it, or perhaps even take some action to help prevent that which I hope so strongly to avoid.

Take, for example, the following episode: Last week I was out running errands with my girls. They had both fallen asleep in the car before I got to the fish market and the local organic grocery. Thankfully, both places were small and had parking lots that backed up right to the storefront windows. I knew it would be OK to lock the doors and leave the girls dreaming in the car while I ran in to get the three things I needed, all while being able to keep an eye on the car.

Of course, not being a mellow mama and all, I couldn’t just leave it at that and run in and do my business. It was a very hot day and some last-minute thoughts crept into my head: What if, while I’m in the store, a bad guy comes in to rob the joint and I can’t get back out to the car in a timely manner? Or, what if I have a heart attack, or a bad fall, or develop amnesia and can’t get back out to the car in a timely manner? Hmmm…Guess I’d better roll down the windows, all four, just to be safe. That way, the girls won’t burn up in the 90 degree heat, and someone will be able to hear them if I can’t get to them and they wake up and start crying. And, maybe I should make it so someone could reach his or her arm in to unlock the door, just in case. Not to kidnap the girls, of course, because I will be able to see them from the window should that happen. But wait, I’m passed out, or dead, right? Hmm…well, better to just leave them only cracked, I think. Because surely everything will be fine. OK. Done.

See? Thought preparedness. Just in case. I got the fish, bacon and milk without incident and the girls never had to know all that went on in my head trying to keep them safe. My husband, on the other hand, did get an earful later. I like to share my little episodes with him. I do this because most times he tells me my bad thoughts are normal. That all parents worry about the what-ifs that could happen to their children. I find this comforting. On the other hand, I often hide the depths to which my thoughts go, and rarely reveal the nitty-gritty, grimmest details of which they’re made to him or to anyone else for that matter. Because sometimes my thoughts go to really freaking dark places, where no thoughts should ever have to go. And, I suppose I keep some details all to myself because there is a fine line between being “normal” in your husband’s eyes and being bat shit crazy. I find I walk that line all the time.