The anxiety and nausea of being us.

I’m sitting here watching my 10 month old play, filled with worry and anxiety for him. I wonder if I would be a better mother if I was not always worried. Worried about the next milestone, the bump in his mouth, the way he crawls, if I gave him baby food that had been sitting too long, just worried. It’s so hard to just be present sometimes.
For some reason I started thinking about myself as a little kid and all of the moments that ate away at my self esteem and that grew this mountain of anxiety inside me. Like when my teacher gave me a dirty look in second grade because I was staring at her. The sad part is, I was staring at her because I liked her. I thought she was a cool teacher. And when she gave me a dirty look, I didn’t just assume she wasn’t the cool teacher I thought she was, I took the position of there must be something wrong with me. And there’s lots of little moments like that. Why do we have imprints of the terrible moments of our lives while we barely remember the happy moments? And all of this makes me think, Desmond’s imprints are starting now. How can I make his memories about getting stronger and feeling happy? What a grand responsibility that is.
I have good memories, too. I remember reading Laura Ingalls Wilder books way past my bedtime, secretly in my room, and starting Big Woods again as soon as I finished the First Four Years. I remember riding to Florida in the back seat of the van and playing with our bears that had different outfits. I remember having Unbirthday Parties, and playing with some kind of computer game in our best friends’ living room. Climbing in the corn crib, picking peaches at the neighbors, wars with the other neighbors, telling our dog to take us home when we were lost in the woods. It took me a minute to find them, but good memories are there.
I don’t really know how to make sure Desmond has more good imprints than bad. I’m not even sure it’s possible. It’s so hard to stop worrying. My new saying is, “I will cross that bridge if I come to it.” I repeat it often in my head. The best I can do, I suppose, is try my hardest to be present, love him as best as I can, and build him up when others make him feel shitty. I’m sure I will screw him up in some ways, may they be mild and easy ways, and may we both learn from my mountain of anxiety.

The anxiety and nausea of being us.

I just worked out for a week straight.

For the first time in my life. I know that doesn’t seem like a lot to marathon trainers, cross fit addicts, and the like, but trust me, it’s a lot. You see, I’m a promise breaker. Especially promises I make to myself. I don’t know why. I guess it’s partially because I’m lazy, and partially because I’m a perfectionist. I will not start anything until I have all the right supplies and tools and have convinced myself that I have enough time. And then, once I start it (not unlike this blog) I will put off finishing it FOREVER if I don’t like something about it. You will notice that I won’t even promise anything here about working out, or posting every day, or playing fantasy basketball, or pretty much any promise that I am bound to break. I’ve learned this about myself somewhere along these 36 years. Still learning how to fix it. Now where’s that Tony Robbins cd series I never finished?

Anyway, back to the working out. The trick for me was so simple, it’s ridiculous. Motivating myself with weight loss, muscles, health, being “beautiful” never worked because I seriously thought that was impossible for me. That it is so far off, it is beyond the horizon, and I am too lazy to see it. Fast forward to this week. I have a very busy 10 month old who I am already having trouble keeping up with. Not like “ohhh.. I’m so fat I can’t move..” But more like “when will he take a nap I need to sleeeeeeep.” And naps are great, but I shouldn’t need so many damn naps. I went back on the black, strong coffee after not having any during my pregnancy and breastfeeding stint. I swear I can drink a venti black iced coffee and fall asleep in my recliner. With a stomach ache. Even if I’ve been taking my synthroid. So I went online and googled “I need more energy”. Something that’s been googled a million times before. Guess what number one is in all those Top Ten lists? Yep, that damn devil exercise. If I want to play with my son all day, and make his baby food, and sweep the floor during his nap, I’m going to have to exercise. And, guess what, it really does work better than caffeine. Ugh, I almost even hate myself for saying it, but it’s true. #facepalm

I just worked out for a week straight.

That time I paid 3.99 a pound for peaches.

I went out to lunch with my husband and son in tow.  Well, if going to the grocery store counts as going out to lunch.  As J waited in line for a sub I hemmed and hawed over whether to go coffee or beer with my lunch.  It was our weekend, a beautiful day out, Pittsburgh Craft Beer Week had just ended leaving delicious only-get-it-now beers on tap for not that much money, and the beer man spotted me.  I was in trouble. He handed me a sample, as he tends to do without asking on a pretty regular basis.  Southern Tier’s Pittsburgh Left was tastier than I remembered (and boozier for that matter).  It was settled.  I looked up the beer as I had my pulled pork sandwich and drank my 3 dollar draft.  8 percenter at 11:30 am?  Well, it was my weekend.  Right?

Then we went shopping.

Next thing I knew I had organic peaches, pineapple salsa, and all of the rest of the things in my basket, which I was lugging around with grocery shopping stars in my eyes as only an 8 percent beer at 11:30am can do.  Good thing J was driving the stroller.

That time I paid 3.99 a pound for peaches.