A few weeks ago, my friend told me about a children’s book contest hosted by the Emory Global Health Institute. The submissions they were looking for were to be targeted toward kids ages six to nine years old, and the purpose was to explain the virus using science-based facts.
You know I’m all about the mental health side of things, and helping calm anxieties when I’m able to, so I chose to frame my submission from that standpoint.
If you’ve followed my blog for longer than 35 seconds, you’re keenly aware that our dogs are a huge part of my life. We have three: one is a mini goldendoodle - we call her “the baby,” which earns us giant eye-rolls from our other two, who are nine-year-old chocolate Lab mixes that we rescued from the shelter when they were just about eight weeks old.
One of those rescues, Lilly - who was at one time shy and nervous, and who would quiver when held, and hide under furniture if you walked straight toward her - is today a registered therapy dog.
A sweet and confident girl who takes on the stress and fear of others and melts it away like butter off the top of a dinner roll.
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.
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.
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.
Did you know I used to be a teacher? I taught 8th graders and I loved being in the classroom so much! I got out of teaching when I was on maternity leave with my youngest son. I was in denial most of my pregnancy with him about having to leave him at daycare after maternity leave was over, so I put off the daycare search until the last minute.
By the time I got my head together, all the daycares in our area had a waitlist, so I was pretty much screwed.
I spent the last few weeks of my pregnancy freaking right the eff out because the only “daycare” with availability was one of those places you see on the evening news, with crooked shutters and names that start with a K in klever - ahem, clever - ways. Ack!!
When I was growing up - especially in my late teens and early 20’s - my hormonal ups and downs were enough to cause whiplash for anyone close to me.
I’d be hyper and loud and laughing and “on” one minute, loving being the center of attention and the life of the party and making everyone laugh, and then worrying about all the things that were out of my control after I was alone: “Was everyone thinking I was obnoxious? Did I embarrass ______ when I said _____? Was I being too loud? Did I make a fool out of myself? Did I hurt ______’s feelings by saying _____? Did I pay enough attention to ____?”
When my oldest son was in kindergarten, there was this kid who would constantly lick my kid.
That’s right, you heard me: he licked him. Not once, not twice. He licked him daily for months.
My son would be sitting at his desk, minding his own business, and this yay-hoo would toodle on past, then swing around really fast, bend down, and lick my son’s hand.
He’d lick his face if he got close enough.
He’d lick my son’s desk if he couldn’t reach him for whatever reason.
You know how some things happen in our lives and they’ll sort-of define that era for you, in your memories?
Like you might say, “Oh that was in my saving-money-by-cutting-my-own-hair phase,” or, “That was during my vegetarian* period.”
It was a period of time that went on way longer than it should have.
Quit with the hiding, quit with the playing devil's advocate, quit with the holding back, quit with the ever-present safety net thrown out, quit with the mamby-effing-pambying.
Last time we talked, I was in the depths of sleepless nights and feverish worry about our son, who’s away at college and has been going through some “stuff.”
After my drive down there to see him in person and grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he returned to himself, I spent the next few weeks texting him every morning to check in and make sure he knew we’re here for him.
And to give him the nudges he needed to get out of his “comfort zone” and live life.
If you’re set up to get my emails you got yourself a gander into the peculiar world of my fear-dreams earlier this week, you lucky devil, you.
(By the way, I’m currently accepting dream interpretations, AND if you aren’t subscribed, but you’re looking for something juicy to sit back with a bag of popcorn and watch play out like a kid at a carnie sideshow, click here and you’ll get the stuff I only share to people I trust with such oddities.)
You might have read this worried-mom post that I shared earlier this week about my son.
It’s a different post than what I usually share - the less-funny and more worrisome side of parenting than most of my posts - and I questioned whether I should share it for a few reasons:
By sharing it, am I exploiting my son?
It’s been about a month since my oldest was home from college for the holidays, so I checked in on him last week with a phone call that went like this:
Me: Hey, baby, whatcha doing?
18: Walking over to get some food.
Me: Oh ok, so you can talk for a sec - how were your classes today?
18: I haven’t had them, yet. They’re later today - one’s at 1:50 and the other isn’t until 6.
Me: UMM, IT’S 1:54!!
18: Oh.
Let me update you.
You know how you look back on your life as a, say middle schooler or high schooler, and you think about how serious you thought things were, and you shake your head a little at how absurd those “serious” things were?
Like standing in a bikini in front of a full-length mirror, turned to the side, and squishing your face up at the sight of the soft pooch in the belly area?
Or throwing yourself across your gingham bedspread-covered bed, in a fit of tears because the boy you liked found out you liked him, but didn’t like you back, because he liked your best friend, and the three of you lived in the same neighborhood and rode the same school bus, so you’d have to look them both in the eye the next day, and you just wanted to disappear?
Hey, momma.
Yes, you. You with the crispy hair from too many days of dry shampoo.
You with the stack of mail you’ve promised to sort through for at least two weeks.
You over there saying a little prayer that your kid doesn’t get salmonella from the slightly expired eggs you fed him this morning (cooked in the microwave, of course, and eaten on the way to school, as if that needed to be said).
You with the screaming toddler in the checkout line at Target, beads of sweat dripping down the back of your neck, while people give you their judgy side-glances for not controlling your child better.
You with the soft bags under your eyes from staying up too late last night, just so you could savor a few delicious minutes of alone time.
A few years ago I wrote a post titled, “Back to School: How the 504 Is Keeping Your Kid From Adulting.”
In case you don’t know what the 504 is, it's part of a civil rights law that prevents discrimination based on a disability.
In layman’s terms, it’s a list of accommodations that level the playing field for students with disabilities or health issues that put them at risk of not having the same opportunities at learning as all the other students.
It worked. It got lots of comments.
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.
