If only I knew 14 or 15 years ago what I know now about raising a child with anxieties.
Our first-born, now 20, had bouts of anxiety from as early as I can remember - infancy, really - and they grew more and more paralyzing as he grew into elementary-school age.
When he was in kindergarten, there was a light bulb flickering in the school gym during PE for over a month, and he would freak the freak out so hard they’d have to send him to the counselor’s office during PE time until they could get maintenance down there to change that damn bulb.
We’re lucky to have visited Orlando - Disney World, in particular - a few different times as our boys have grown up, and I know I don’t need to tell you this: everything Disney is magical and amazing.
This city has so much to offer for travelers of all types: friend trips, couples, families with little kids, and families with older kids. And families with kids of widely different ages, like mine.
Something happened recently that has me freaked out a bit over what could have happened. I want to share it with you, not to be exploitative, but to bring awareness.
And because writing about things is how I “deal.”
Not that this is about me.
My 8-year-old son and I went to my favorite place in the whole wide world (Target, of course) to buy materials we needed for a school project. My child had to, of course, use the bathroom, because using bathrooms in every store we visit is his most passionate hobby, so I waited by the registers for him to come out.
He came out of the bathroom and told me that something weird had happened.
With the temperatures edging up, we’re starting to get antsy around here at the Braziel household, ready and just itching to get our next trip on the books.
Mark and I have an Orlando trip coming up in a few weeks, but that’s just for us - no kids on that one.
We’re meeting up with my cousin and her husband, who are flying in from England and I’m so excited to get to spend the weekend with them and to share our adventures with you!
When my group of girlfriends get together for any kind of trip or special event, we have to have matching t-shirts because our seventh-grade selves are desperate for a do-over, now that we have the confidence and sense of belonging that comes way after junior high, AND we have the matching shirts to prove it.
Our husbands are not on board with this matching shirt business, but we force them into it.
I’m sharing how you can make these fun custom t-shirts so you and your girls will be matchy-matchy when you go out in public, giving you that great sense of belonging you never knew you were missing.
Let me start by saying that this is by no means a fool-proof or perfect plan.
In fact, it’s been literally less than 24 hours since there were tears shed over homework at this very table where I currently type these words.
This is just a guideline that works as a general rule.
Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.
It requires that everyone do their own part.
A few weeks ago, I joined my sis-in-law and another girlfriend of ours for a girls’ weekend in Waco. Our friend, Sunday, and I live outside of Austin, and my sis, Jill, lives in Fort Worth, so Waco is the perfect meet-in-the-middle spot.
We’ve all been to the Silos before, and since the weekend we went was the annual Spring at the Silos event, we had no intention of going there and battling lines and crowds of crazy Chip and JoJo-seekers.
You know how much I love coffee, right?
There was a time when my coffee order would be the most candybar-licious drink, with about five different squirts of various syrups, a big fluff of whipped cream, and a sprinkling of salted-but-slightly-sweetened magic dust that made my heart beat really fast all morning - all due to equal parts caffeine, sugar, and deep affection.
And I would order it this way every. single. day.
A few years ago, I knew that the long-term damage of drinking all my calories would be worse than dry shaving the bikini area, so I started changing up my order until the life was sucked right out of my cup of coffee, and - although I made-do for a while - I just couldn’t take it anymore.
One of my favorite memories growing up is of my mom baking homemade Nestle Toll House Chocolate Chip cookies. She would mix up the dough and put the bowl in the freezer and bake small batches at a time during the next few weeks.
Her cookie-baking time meant I could be in the kitchen with her.
To this day, warm Nestle Toll House cookies are irresistible to me.
Full transparency: there isn’t a “bowl of dough” happening, anyway.
In my house we do Nestle’s “break-n-bake” because - while I do think there’s something slightly missing from the taste by taking this time-saving route, you know that my claim to fame is cutting corners.
When our oldest son, who turns 20 in a few weeks, was in elementary school, we were asked to fill out a form at the end of each year, indicating which teacher we wanted him to have for the next school year.
There were other questions on the form, too, where you could give more information about your kid’s personality and their learning style, which the committee would take into consideration when setting class rosters.
They might still do this. I’m not sure.
It’s a nice gesture toward the parents, and I’m sure the school administrators found it helpful when they were putting the classes together.
I remember that early each school year, there would be rumblings from parents who didn’t get the teacher they put as their first choice. And sometimes they wouldn’t get their second or third choice, either.
Aah, the things we get riled up about. 🤷
One of my favorite things about myself is my sense of humor. Not to be braggy, but I’m one of the funniest people I’ve ever met.
I’ve always taken great pride in being able to laugh things off, even in times of sadness and stress.
Even during the cycles of depression I’ve experienced in my life, humor was there, although it wasn’t as accessible to me as it is when I’m out of the funk.
Part of our morning routine on school days is for Cody to tell me, “But we’re not late - we’ve left way later than this before,” when I tell him he needs to get moving so we’ll be on time for school.
I’ve tried explaining to him that we might not be late at that very second, but that if he keeps the pace he’s currently keeping - slow AF - we’ll most definitely be late.
Getting him to understand that he’s still got eight more steps in the 10 steps it takes to get out the door in the morning, requires a degree in childhood development that reaches far beyond the likes of my wildly average parenting.
I get it, though.
The mindset that says, “I don’t need to get started right now. Things aren’t that bad.”
When my youngest son, who’s now in fifth grade, was in first grade, we already saw the signs of a child with ADHD. He didn’t have hyperactivity or behavior issues sometimes associated with ADHD, but he couldn’t focus for shit.
We had parent-teacher conferences, I sent many unanswered emails to the teacher, and time after time, we found that she was lumping him in with all the other students, and completely overlooking the specific educational needs of my son.
I wasn’t asking her for an effing kidney. I just wanted her to consider for just one flipping minute that my son wasn’t learning the way she was teaching.
You know how when you meet someone you instantly click with, and you find them so adorably charming that you fantasize being bff’s and having slumber parties together and brushing each other’s hair into the wee hours?
I found someone like that.
Remember a few weeks ago when I told you how to win the Room Mom of the Year Award? I didn’t want to just write about the craft that would help you win the award, I also did the craft myself, because what kind of person would I be if I just claimed I was sharing the magic recipe for Room Mom success, without even trying it for myself to make sure?
Let me start by saying that a few days prior to the party, things were right on schedule and everything was coming together as planned.
Kristan (Braziel) LeBaron is an author, writer, marketing professional, and the voice of the blog, Bring Mommy A Martini. Mom to two hilarious boys: one in college and the other in middle school, she writes “real mom” stories on life with anxiety & depression, and choosing happiness as a daily practice. She lives outside of Austin with her two sons and two lavishly kept dogs.
