A little over a year ago, my redhead was "invited" - in quotes because it wasn't exactly a request - to participate in his class's Poetry Day. He had to find a poem, memorize it, and then recite it in front of a classroom full of children and parents.
So he found a poem from his favorite book: Sandra Boynton's Snoozers.
The Big Yawn
A pteranodon
Will show off its yawn
Anytime you request it.
Both you and your chair
Could fit inside there.
Though I wouldn't suggest it.
He recited it over and over and over again, until he could recite it in his sleep.
In his sleep. Bedtime poem. Get it? Ha ha.
And because this is how these things go, Poetry Day was scheduled on a day when I had to be away on business. And his dad couldn't go. So our amazing Belgian au pair filled in and went in my stead.
And this is what happened.
The teacher called on the redhead. He stood up in front of the class - all his friends, and his teacher, and his friends' parents. And then he turned bright red and demanded that everyone leave. The teacher said no, they had to stay, but maybe everyone could close their eyes. He said okay. So the whole classroom full of people closed their eyes. He recited his poem.
And then he burst into tears.
Because I wasn't there. And because he has stage fright, in a big big way.
In first grade there's no Poetry Day. But there is a Variety Show. Entirely voluntary. My diva, a born show-woman, has been in the Variety Show each of the past three years. So the redhead knows all about it. He had no interest in performing, though. Not until we got an email from a good friend of mine, the mom of another redhead in my redhead's class, suggesting the boys perform together with another friend. I told my little guy, and he got all excited. Why? Because they were going to "Do the Mario." Literally. Two boys in Mario costumes, one in a Luigi costume, dancing for 45 seconds. In front of well over 100 loving parents, grandparents and siblings. In a spotlight, no less.
I figured he'd panic. I figured he'd cry. I figured he'd run off the stage in fear.
He didn't. He totally rocked it. He rocked it right through the dress rehearsal and two nights of performances. He rocked it in front of his brother, his mother, two of his au pairs, and the 100s of theatergoers assembled in the audience.
He's still a little afraid of zombies. And a lot afraid of the dark, though if you tell him I said that, I'll totally deny it. But he's not afraid of getting on stage and pretending to be an Italian plumber in a mustache.
Dance your heart out, kid. You make your mama proud.
Showing posts with label phobias. Show all posts
Showing posts with label phobias. Show all posts
March 4, 2012
June 24, 2010
Squish
You may recall my redhead being completely incapacitated by his fear of zombies and poison frogs.
(This is where I'd insert a reference to the Litany Against Fear from Dune, 'cause yes, I'm that geeky. I just can't figure out a way to do it gracefully.)
Anyway ... I convinced the little guy that neither zombies nor poison dart frogs could drive, and since they live too far away to walk, that took care of the worst of it. But he was still afraid. He slept with his magic, force-field wielding baby blanket every night, and he covered his ears and hollered whenever a sibling said the "z" word or the "f" word (the other "f" word -you know, four letters, ends in "g"). It was bad enough that I banned any discussion of zombies. Period.
This week, that all changed.
That's because this week, the kids and I are on vacation. Amongst our other adventures, we spent a day at the National Aquarium in Baltimore. Way cool place, chock full of dolphins and jellyfish and a bunch of other fascinating sea creatures.
Oddly enough, they've also got a whole mess of poison dart frogs. Not so much with the aquatic, really. But, as it happens, very handy to have around. Because - guess what? Those frogs are tiny. Little bitty teeny tiny things. About the size of my little guy's thumb.
And eminently squishable.
I took a risk and introduced my fearful redhead to every single variety of poison dart frog in the place. I showed him their teeny tiny selves. He took one look at those terrifying beasts ... and he giggled. He actually giggled. Then he told me he would punch them all in the face and squish them.
Good-bye poison dart frogs.
Yes, I know they're endangered. I don't care. My kid believes he can squish them at will, and that is a good, good thing. And no, I did not bother to tell him that one of these puppies has enough venom to kill 10 adult humans. There are some things he does not need to know.
On the way home, we had this conversation.
"You know how I said I was afraid of poison frogs?"
"Yep."
"That was a joke. I was joking about the zombies, too," he added. "Because, you know, they're not even real."
Take that, fear. You've been squished.
(This is where I'd insert a reference to the Litany Against Fear from Dune, 'cause yes, I'm that geeky. I just can't figure out a way to do it gracefully.)
Anyway ... I convinced the little guy that neither zombies nor poison dart frogs could drive, and since they live too far away to walk, that took care of the worst of it. But he was still afraid. He slept with his magic, force-field wielding baby blanket every night, and he covered his ears and hollered whenever a sibling said the "z" word or the "f" word (the other "f" word -you know, four letters, ends in "g"). It was bad enough that I banned any discussion of zombies. Period.
This week, that all changed.
That's because this week, the kids and I are on vacation. Amongst our other adventures, we spent a day at the National Aquarium in Baltimore. Way cool place, chock full of dolphins and jellyfish and a bunch of other fascinating sea creatures.
Oddly enough, they've also got a whole mess of poison dart frogs. Not so much with the aquatic, really. But, as it happens, very handy to have around. Because - guess what? Those frogs are tiny. Little bitty teeny tiny things. About the size of my little guy's thumb.
And eminently squishable.
I took a risk and introduced my fearful redhead to every single variety of poison dart frog in the place. I showed him their teeny tiny selves. He took one look at those terrifying beasts ... and he giggled. He actually giggled. Then he told me he would punch them all in the face and squish them.
Good-bye poison dart frogs.
Yes, I know they're endangered. I don't care. My kid believes he can squish them at will, and that is a good, good thing. And no, I did not bother to tell him that one of these puppies has enough venom to kill 10 adult humans. There are some things he does not need to know.
On the way home, we had this conversation.
"You know how I said I was afraid of poison frogs?"
"Yep."
"That was a joke. I was joking about the zombies, too," he added. "Because, you know, they're not even real."
Take that, fear. You've been squished.
April 25, 2010
Prime Numbers
This week, I celebrated my birthday.
This is, believe it or not, a good thing. It's a good thing because I am oddly superstitious about prime-number ages, and before last Monday I was stuck at 43.
I'm not 43 anymore. I get to be 44 now. For a whole year, I get not one but two beautifully even digits and a whole slew of deeply gorgeous factors. I like factors. Factors mean no more primes.
Yes, I know this is vaguely math geeky. Sue me.
The bad thing about my birthday is that I spent several hours of it on an airplane. I hate airplanes. Because, while I may be a semi-credible math geek, I don't believe in physics, and I don't buy that there is an actual science that makes flight possible. Don't bother trying to convince me otherwise; smarter folks than you have failed. And yes, that includes my dad (who is a terrible flyer despite his very firm belief in physics).
But worse, getting on that plane meant I spent most of my birthday on the front end of a four-day business trip that took me away from my kids.
Now, there are some prime numbers I like. I like the number three, for example, because I have three bright, fabulous, amazingly wonderful kids. So three is good.
And I like the number 11. My Aspie is 11. That's not why I like it, though. I like it because it's got double digits and it looks like it should have factors. Yes, I know it doesn't. Still, as primes go, that's one of the coolest. (The other cool prime is two. An even prime? How awesome is that!)
And I like the number seven. I didn't used to like it. See, I was seven when my parents got divorced. Who knows, that may even be where my weird anti-prime age thing started.
But my amazing au pair has changed my mind. Because my amazing au pair is our seventh au pair. And while we've had several truly terrific au pairs (and one or two we don't talk about so much) ... well, this au pair, she really is amazing.
On my birthday, she let my three early birds wake her up at 6:45 a.m. She's 19 (oh, look, another prime!), and at 19, 6:45 a.m. is ridiculously early. But she's amazing, right? So she got up at that insane hour and helped the kids make breakfast and decorate a pretty tray and bring it all up to my room. I got to do nothing but wake up to my redhead's charming face planted squarely over mine, shouting "Mom! Don't. Get. Out. Of. BED!"
I didn't. I stayed in bed and enjoyed a homemade card from the diva, big hugs from everyone, a yummy Belgian bread pudding, scrambled eggs, and a tall glass of orange juice.
Although, I didn't get to enjoy the orange juice. At least, I didn't get to drink it. Because somehow it wound up in my lap. And all over my bedsheets. And my blanket. And my quilt.
You'd think a non-morning person like myself would have lost it, getting an orange juice shower that early in the day. Nope. Not me. I laughed and gave a big hug to my redhead, whose feet had done the damage. 'Cause all those prime numbers had put a great big smile on my face that even airplanes and orange juice could not erase. Thank you, prime numbers.
We'll see how I feel when 47 comes along.
This is, believe it or not, a good thing. It's a good thing because I am oddly superstitious about prime-number ages, and before last Monday I was stuck at 43.
I'm not 43 anymore. I get to be 44 now. For a whole year, I get not one but two beautifully even digits and a whole slew of deeply gorgeous factors. I like factors. Factors mean no more primes.
Yes, I know this is vaguely math geeky. Sue me.
The bad thing about my birthday is that I spent several hours of it on an airplane. I hate airplanes. Because, while I may be a semi-credible math geek, I don't believe in physics, and I don't buy that there is an actual science that makes flight possible. Don't bother trying to convince me otherwise; smarter folks than you have failed. And yes, that includes my dad (who is a terrible flyer despite his very firm belief in physics).
But worse, getting on that plane meant I spent most of my birthday on the front end of a four-day business trip that took me away from my kids.
Now, there are some prime numbers I like. I like the number three, for example, because I have three bright, fabulous, amazingly wonderful kids. So three is good.
And I like the number 11. My Aspie is 11. That's not why I like it, though. I like it because it's got double digits and it looks like it should have factors. Yes, I know it doesn't. Still, as primes go, that's one of the coolest. (The other cool prime is two. An even prime? How awesome is that!)
And I like the number seven. I didn't used to like it. See, I was seven when my parents got divorced. Who knows, that may even be where my weird anti-prime age thing started.
But my amazing au pair has changed my mind. Because my amazing au pair is our seventh au pair. And while we've had several truly terrific au pairs (and one or two we don't talk about so much) ... well, this au pair, she really is amazing.
On my birthday, she let my three early birds wake her up at 6:45 a.m. She's 19 (oh, look, another prime!), and at 19, 6:45 a.m. is ridiculously early. But she's amazing, right? So she got up at that insane hour and helped the kids make breakfast and decorate a pretty tray and bring it all up to my room. I got to do nothing but wake up to my redhead's charming face planted squarely over mine, shouting "Mom! Don't. Get. Out. Of. BED!"
I didn't. I stayed in bed and enjoyed a homemade card from the diva, big hugs from everyone, a yummy Belgian bread pudding, scrambled eggs, and a tall glass of orange juice.
Although, I didn't get to enjoy the orange juice. At least, I didn't get to drink it. Because somehow it wound up in my lap. And all over my bedsheets. And my blanket. And my quilt.
You'd think a non-morning person like myself would have lost it, getting an orange juice shower that early in the day. Nope. Not me. I laughed and gave a big hug to my redhead, whose feet had done the damage. 'Cause all those prime numbers had put a great big smile on my face that even airplanes and orange juice could not erase. Thank you, prime numbers.
We'll see how I feel when 47 comes along.
January 29, 2010
Kanata Canada
Canada is lovely this time of year. No, seriously, it is. See, I just got back from a recent trip to Ottawa. Well, technically I was in the Ottawa suburb of Kanata. Yes, that's Kanata, Canada.
This is Ottawa:
View Larger Map
Generally speaking, that whole area is due north of the bitterly cold place that is upstate New York. So I expected it to be bitterly cold and then some.
Only it wasn't cold. It was balmy. And rainy. And practically warm. Until yesterday.
Yesterday was the day I flew home. Yesterday, the temperature in Ottawa dropped from the high 30s into the low teens and kept falling. Yesterday, a freakish wind sprang up to blow a light snowfall into a frenzy. It stopped traffic and sent blinding flurries sideways through gray skies. The snow stopped eventually. But not the wind. It made for an interesting view through the two-story windows at the airport terminal. Gorgeous sunset up top, all pink and glowy and peaceful. Furious storm down below, with swirling eddies of snow so dense you couldn't make out the planes at the end of the gangways.
Weird. And for a woman with a massive flight phobia, totally unnerving.
So I took my Xanax, the gift of pharmacology that makes air travel possible for panic-prone fliers such as myself.
Then the flight was delayed. Which I didn't realize, because my Xanax - lovely, panic-quelling miracle that it is - also puts me out like a light. But I heard the boarding announcement. I got up. I got on the plane. And then the Xanax wore off. It wore off just as we were coming into DC's National Airport, one of the nastiest approaches in US airspace. All bouncy and twisty and crazy-making. And, unknowingly Xanax-free, I had my first panic attack in a decade.
I was lucky. I was sitting in the back row of the airplane, all by myself. So the plane bounced. I panicked. No one noticed. The plane landed. I made myself stand up and put on my coat. I calmly walked to the baggage claim and I picked up my bag. I walked out the door. I met an old friend who'd come to give me a ride home. Like the gentleman he is, he stepped out of his car to put my bag in the trunk. And my competent, 43-year-old self immediately collapsed into a shaky, snivelly, post-panicky mess.
Poor fella gave me a hug, even though it was about 12 degrees outside and all he really wanted was a hamburger because my late flight had delayed his already well delayed dinner. Good man. Good friend. And it worked. Shaky snivelling stopped. Panic abated. Though I'll admit it was something like 2:00 a.m. before I finally settled down enough to sleep.
Nice to know a good hug makes an effective Xanax substitute when you need one, though.
PS: Here's wishing a very happy 8th birthday to my diva!
This is Ottawa:
View Larger Map
Generally speaking, that whole area is due north of the bitterly cold place that is upstate New York. So I expected it to be bitterly cold and then some.
Only it wasn't cold. It was balmy. And rainy. And practically warm. Until yesterday.
Yesterday was the day I flew home. Yesterday, the temperature in Ottawa dropped from the high 30s into the low teens and kept falling. Yesterday, a freakish wind sprang up to blow a light snowfall into a frenzy. It stopped traffic and sent blinding flurries sideways through gray skies. The snow stopped eventually. But not the wind. It made for an interesting view through the two-story windows at the airport terminal. Gorgeous sunset up top, all pink and glowy and peaceful. Furious storm down below, with swirling eddies of snow so dense you couldn't make out the planes at the end of the gangways.
Weird. And for a woman with a massive flight phobia, totally unnerving.
So I took my Xanax, the gift of pharmacology that makes air travel possible for panic-prone fliers such as myself.
Then the flight was delayed. Which I didn't realize, because my Xanax - lovely, panic-quelling miracle that it is - also puts me out like a light. But I heard the boarding announcement. I got up. I got on the plane. And then the Xanax wore off. It wore off just as we were coming into DC's National Airport, one of the nastiest approaches in US airspace. All bouncy and twisty and crazy-making. And, unknowingly Xanax-free, I had my first panic attack in a decade.
I was lucky. I was sitting in the back row of the airplane, all by myself. So the plane bounced. I panicked. No one noticed. The plane landed. I made myself stand up and put on my coat. I calmly walked to the baggage claim and I picked up my bag. I walked out the door. I met an old friend who'd come to give me a ride home. Like the gentleman he is, he stepped out of his car to put my bag in the trunk. And my competent, 43-year-old self immediately collapsed into a shaky, snivelly, post-panicky mess.
Poor fella gave me a hug, even though it was about 12 degrees outside and all he really wanted was a hamburger because my late flight had delayed his already well delayed dinner. Good man. Good friend. And it worked. Shaky snivelling stopped. Panic abated. Though I'll admit it was something like 2:00 a.m. before I finally settled down enough to sleep.
Nice to know a good hug makes an effective Xanax substitute when you need one, though.
PS: Here's wishing a very happy 8th birthday to my diva!
December 20, 2009
Snowed In
I've got insomnia. Or, as my sister calls it, can'tgotobednia. She's noted - quite accurately - that real insomnia means you lie awake all night. That's not my problem. I'd sleep, if I went to bed. I just don't go to bed.
This weekend, I found a cure.
It was a Not My Weekend (as in, the nearly ex has the kids and I have a bit of me time). And it started poorly, with my redhead screaming in terror about having to go to dad's house. Apparently the zombies who can't drive live at dad's house. So he was dragged out to the car clutching his blankie and screaming blue murder.
Cue big ole stressed out mushy mom tears. And a stressed out mom, for the record, is a mom who can't sleep.
But I had plans to meet an old friend for a festive holiday dinner. So I ignored the stress, put on my new favorite dress (it's amazing what a good dress can do for a girl's mood) and headed out - to a whole other state, in fact - to meet my friend at The Best Restaurant Ever.
We walked in for an amazingly good meal of coq au vin, with cocoa in the vin (which sounds a bit scary but it's really rich and spectacular), polished off with decadent coconut cake.
We walked out into the start of "snopocalypse." The Great Blizzard of 2009. Snow everywhere. Slippy, slidy, really not drivable snow.
My friend graciously offered me a place to stay. I accepted.
And I slept. Soundly. All night long.
Woke up at 9:30. Looked at the 8 inches of snow on the ground. Went back sleep.
Woke up at 1:00. Looked at the 12 inches of snow on the ground. Made pancakes. Sat down to watch the Tar Heels. Fell asleep before they lost.
Woke up for dinner. My friend lives mere blocks from an Irish pub that believes a blizzard is a silly reason to shut its doors. So we braved the elements and about 2 feet of snow for beef stew and Black and Tans, then headed back to watch The Best Star Wars Movie Ever.
I fell asleep right after Yoda lifted Luke's X-wing out of the swamp on Dagobah and woke up just in time for the credits.
My friend asked me if I'd have trouble sleeping that night after sleeping all day.
Nope. Slept like a rock.
I woke up, at last, at 10:30 this morning.
Blizzards are stress. It took us nearly 3 hours of heavy lifting to dig out. On the long drive home, I saw more than 10 cars spun into snow drifts and each other. My own town - boonie burg that it is - hasn't yet been plowed. At all. Schools in our area are closed tomorrow, two full days after the snowfall.
But I'm relaxed. I'm happy. Because I slept. I slept and slept and slept.
Apparently, snow cures can'tgotobednia.
Is it wrong to hope for a blizzard every day?
PS: Today marks day 461 in limbo ... and counting
This weekend, I found a cure.
It was a Not My Weekend (as in, the nearly ex has the kids and I have a bit of me time). And it started poorly, with my redhead screaming in terror about having to go to dad's house. Apparently the zombies who can't drive live at dad's house. So he was dragged out to the car clutching his blankie and screaming blue murder.
Cue big ole stressed out mushy mom tears. And a stressed out mom, for the record, is a mom who can't sleep.
But I had plans to meet an old friend for a festive holiday dinner. So I ignored the stress, put on my new favorite dress (it's amazing what a good dress can do for a girl's mood) and headed out - to a whole other state, in fact - to meet my friend at The Best Restaurant Ever.
We walked in for an amazingly good meal of coq au vin, with cocoa in the vin (which sounds a bit scary but it's really rich and spectacular), polished off with decadent coconut cake.
We walked out into the start of "snopocalypse." The Great Blizzard of 2009. Snow everywhere. Slippy, slidy, really not drivable snow.
My friend graciously offered me a place to stay. I accepted.
And I slept. Soundly. All night long.
Woke up at 9:30. Looked at the 8 inches of snow on the ground. Went back sleep.
Woke up at 1:00. Looked at the 12 inches of snow on the ground. Made pancakes. Sat down to watch the Tar Heels. Fell asleep before they lost.
Woke up for dinner. My friend lives mere blocks from an Irish pub that believes a blizzard is a silly reason to shut its doors. So we braved the elements and about 2 feet of snow for beef stew and Black and Tans, then headed back to watch The Best Star Wars Movie Ever.
I fell asleep right after Yoda lifted Luke's X-wing out of the swamp on Dagobah and woke up just in time for the credits.
My friend asked me if I'd have trouble sleeping that night after sleeping all day.
Nope. Slept like a rock.
I woke up, at last, at 10:30 this morning.
Blizzards are stress. It took us nearly 3 hours of heavy lifting to dig out. On the long drive home, I saw more than 10 cars spun into snow drifts and each other. My own town - boonie burg that it is - hasn't yet been plowed. At all. Schools in our area are closed tomorrow, two full days after the snowfall.
But I'm relaxed. I'm happy. Because I slept. I slept and slept and slept.
Apparently, snow cures can'tgotobednia.
Is it wrong to hope for a blizzard every day?
PS: Today marks day 461 in limbo ... and counting
December 6, 2009
Don't Let the Zombies Drive the Bus
For more than three weeks now, my redhead has approached bedtime in a blind panic. This was far more than the typical "I'm not going to bed so I'm having a tantrum" willfulness. I've seen enough of that to know the difference. This was fear.
Fear of zombies, specifically.
Turns out, right around Halloween, the nearly ex took the three kids to a comic book convention in Baltimore. There, they saw a couple of zombie-dressed grown-ups. The older two took this in stride. The little guy? He thought the zombies were chasing him.
That's not what did it, though.
A couple of weeks ago, in an effort to entertain the troops through another chicken nugget feast, the nearly ex pulled up YouTube and put on Michael Jackson's "Thriller." With zombies. Lots and lots of zombies.
Upshot? Terrified four year old.
And then came the frogs.
Apparently the big brother was watching an episode of the Penguins of Madagascar about poison dart frogs. Green bubbly rashes. Stacks of paralyzed penguins. All that made quite an impression on my little guy, so the poison frogs joined the zombies for our nightly phobia fest. (Because, of course, zombies come out only at night.)
Lots of screaming over toothbrushes and bedtime stories. Lots of refusing to climb into bed. Lots of not falling asleep. And then lots of waking up. And more waking up. And then waking up some more.
We used monster spray. It doesn't work on zombies, or so I was informed. I even got a scented room spray instead of the high-powered, mom-sized, imaginary monster spray we usually use.
Not enough.
I pulled out the redhead's baby blanket and told him it was infused with protective magic. After all, he made it to the ripe old age of four without a single zombie incident. And while it didn't solve the problem, it did help. He takes it to dad's house. He takes it to preschool. He uses it as a superhero cape and pulls it up to his chin at bedtime. He feels safer.
Still, not enough.
Finally, in an effort to get the poison frogs off the list, I pointed out to him that the frogs live very far away. And that they can't fly an airplane. And they can't get on a boat. So they can't come here.
That worked.
But the zombies? Well, they live in Baltimore, or so my little guy tells me. And, truth be told, Baltimore is a heckuva lot closer than South America.
That's when mom had a brainstorm.
"Honey, tell me, can zombies drive?"
"Oh no. They can't drive."
"Well, Baltimore's pretty far away. Didn't you have to take a car to go there?"
"Um ... yeah." Wheels turning. "Hey, they can't come here!"
Problem solved. Zombies can't drive. They are stuck in Baltimore. And I guarantee you, we are not going to Baltimore. Not now. Not ever.
At least, not without that blanket.
Fear of zombies, specifically.
Turns out, right around Halloween, the nearly ex took the three kids to a comic book convention in Baltimore. There, they saw a couple of zombie-dressed grown-ups. The older two took this in stride. The little guy? He thought the zombies were chasing him.
That's not what did it, though.
A couple of weeks ago, in an effort to entertain the troops through another chicken nugget feast, the nearly ex pulled up YouTube and put on Michael Jackson's "Thriller." With zombies. Lots and lots of zombies.
Upshot? Terrified four year old.
And then came the frogs.
Apparently the big brother was watching an episode of the Penguins of Madagascar about poison dart frogs. Green bubbly rashes. Stacks of paralyzed penguins. All that made quite an impression on my little guy, so the poison frogs joined the zombies for our nightly phobia fest. (Because, of course, zombies come out only at night.)
Lots of screaming over toothbrushes and bedtime stories. Lots of refusing to climb into bed. Lots of not falling asleep. And then lots of waking up. And more waking up. And then waking up some more.
We used monster spray. It doesn't work on zombies, or so I was informed. I even got a scented room spray instead of the high-powered, mom-sized, imaginary monster spray we usually use.
Not enough.
I pulled out the redhead's baby blanket and told him it was infused with protective magic. After all, he made it to the ripe old age of four without a single zombie incident. And while it didn't solve the problem, it did help. He takes it to dad's house. He takes it to preschool. He uses it as a superhero cape and pulls it up to his chin at bedtime. He feels safer.
Still, not enough.
Finally, in an effort to get the poison frogs off the list, I pointed out to him that the frogs live very far away. And that they can't fly an airplane. And they can't get on a boat. So they can't come here.
That worked.
But the zombies? Well, they live in Baltimore, or so my little guy tells me. And, truth be told, Baltimore is a heckuva lot closer than South America.
That's when mom had a brainstorm.
"Honey, tell me, can zombies drive?"
"Oh no. They can't drive."
"Well, Baltimore's pretty far away. Didn't you have to take a car to go there?"
"Um ... yeah." Wheels turning. "Hey, they can't come here!"
Problem solved. Zombies can't drive. They are stuck in Baltimore. And I guarantee you, we are not going to Baltimore. Not now. Not ever.
At least, not without that blanket.
August 1, 2009
Fear of Flying
I love my cast iron. I love it almost as much as I hate to fly. And I really hate to fly.
On Tuesday, these two facts collided.
On Tuesday, I set fire to my favorite cast iron pan. Real fire. Orange flames leaping toward the ceiling. Smoke alarms screaming madly all over the house. In other words, a scary fire. A little one. But scary nevertheless.
The fire started because I'm afraid to fly. In the face of that fear, my everyday insomnia had become a big hairy insomnia monster. Lack of sleep is normal for me. But lack of sleep to that degree? It'd make Einstein stupid.
The fire started because I couldn't find my Xanax. Xanax is the miracle that makes flying possible. Without it, I get panic attacks and can't even set foot on a plane. I was getting on a plane in 12 hours, and I couldn't find my Xanax. My brain had stopped cold.
But mostly, the fire started because I love my pan.
This pan, it's a simple 12-inch skillet. My grandfather made a gift of just such a skillet to my mom when she left home for college in the early 1960s. My mom gave that same skillet to me in 1985, when I moved into my first apartment. And I gave that skillet to my sister when she moved into her first place all by her lonesome.
My sister knew just how much I missed that skillet. So she took the time to find me a new one. She seasoned it lovingly until it attained that black patina good cast iron gets when it's properly cared for. And then she gave it to me. Twin skillets, one for me, one for her.
We don't have twin skillets anymore.
Late Tuesday, on a quest to feed the insomnia monster, I set a pot of water on the stove to boil for noodles. I turned the burner on high and went upstairs to pack. Thing is, I turned on the wrong burner. I turned on the burner under my beautiful - and very empty - cast iron skillet. When I came back to check on my water, the bottom of that beautiful skillet was peeling and gray and ugly.
My first thought? My poor pan! It needs oil!
You can see how sleep deprivation and panic may have played a role here. In my normal, well-rested state, I can tell you, point of fact, that if you pour oil into a superheated skillet, it will light up like a giant fireball.
But that night? That night all I could think about was my beautiful pan. I didn't turn off the stove. I didn't let the pan cool. No, I pulled out my big bottle of Trader Joe's cold-pressed, extra virgin olive oil and poured a good quarter cup into that hot cast iron frying pan sitting on a glowing red electric burner set to HIGH.
Moments later that pan exploded into flame. Gosh, what a surprise that was, eh?
I'm damn lucky the whole bottle of oil didn't explode in my hand. I'm luckier still that the part of my brain saying "Oh shit, better put that burning skillet of oil into the sink and pour water on it" got stuck on "Oh shit," so I didn't act on the thought. Instead, I grabbed the fire extinguisher from the cabinet next to the stove. I heard some voice in my head - I think it may have been Dick Van Dyke's - telling me to pull the pin and shoot. So I pulled the pin, and I put that damn fire out.
The oil splattered. It burned the crap out of one of my fingers and singed my kitchen floor. My formerly white cabinets are a dingy, smoky gray. My kitchen is covered in extinguisher dust. And my poor, beautiful, well-loved skillet is sitting in the sink, a ruined, greasy, extinguished mess.
That's all waiting for me when I get home.
The good news? I found the Xanax. I got on the plane. I got off the plane. And then I got a great big hug from my dad.
I think that makes it all better.
On Tuesday, these two facts collided.
On Tuesday, I set fire to my favorite cast iron pan. Real fire. Orange flames leaping toward the ceiling. Smoke alarms screaming madly all over the house. In other words, a scary fire. A little one. But scary nevertheless.
The fire started because I'm afraid to fly. In the face of that fear, my everyday insomnia had become a big hairy insomnia monster. Lack of sleep is normal for me. But lack of sleep to that degree? It'd make Einstein stupid.
The fire started because I couldn't find my Xanax. Xanax is the miracle that makes flying possible. Without it, I get panic attacks and can't even set foot on a plane. I was getting on a plane in 12 hours, and I couldn't find my Xanax. My brain had stopped cold.
But mostly, the fire started because I love my pan.
This pan, it's a simple 12-inch skillet. My grandfather made a gift of just such a skillet to my mom when she left home for college in the early 1960s. My mom gave that same skillet to me in 1985, when I moved into my first apartment. And I gave that skillet to my sister when she moved into her first place all by her lonesome.
My sister knew just how much I missed that skillet. So she took the time to find me a new one. She seasoned it lovingly until it attained that black patina good cast iron gets when it's properly cared for. And then she gave it to me. Twin skillets, one for me, one for her.
We don't have twin skillets anymore.
Late Tuesday, on a quest to feed the insomnia monster, I set a pot of water on the stove to boil for noodles. I turned the burner on high and went upstairs to pack. Thing is, I turned on the wrong burner. I turned on the burner under my beautiful - and very empty - cast iron skillet. When I came back to check on my water, the bottom of that beautiful skillet was peeling and gray and ugly.
My first thought? My poor pan! It needs oil!
You can see how sleep deprivation and panic may have played a role here. In my normal, well-rested state, I can tell you, point of fact, that if you pour oil into a superheated skillet, it will light up like a giant fireball.
But that night? That night all I could think about was my beautiful pan. I didn't turn off the stove. I didn't let the pan cool. No, I pulled out my big bottle of Trader Joe's cold-pressed, extra virgin olive oil and poured a good quarter cup into that hot cast iron frying pan sitting on a glowing red electric burner set to HIGH.
Moments later that pan exploded into flame. Gosh, what a surprise that was, eh?
I'm damn lucky the whole bottle of oil didn't explode in my hand. I'm luckier still that the part of my brain saying "Oh shit, better put that burning skillet of oil into the sink and pour water on it" got stuck on "Oh shit," so I didn't act on the thought. Instead, I grabbed the fire extinguisher from the cabinet next to the stove. I heard some voice in my head - I think it may have been Dick Van Dyke's - telling me to pull the pin and shoot. So I pulled the pin, and I put that damn fire out.
The oil splattered. It burned the crap out of one of my fingers and singed my kitchen floor. My formerly white cabinets are a dingy, smoky gray. My kitchen is covered in extinguisher dust. And my poor, beautiful, well-loved skillet is sitting in the sink, a ruined, greasy, extinguished mess.
That's all waiting for me when I get home.
The good news? I found the Xanax. I got on the plane. I got off the plane. And then I got a great big hug from my dad.
I think that makes it all better.
June 22, 2009
Thunder! Lightning!
After dinner tonight, I proposed a walk to the kids. It's June, and the fireflies are out in droves. The sky was clear with a stunning sunset in the making. I even promised popsicles and a late bedtime, figuring on a little bonding and some memory-making.
And from the diva? A total meltdown. She could not handle even the thought of walking out the front door. Tears streamed down her face from the mental trauma of it all. I was at a loss until she blurted out, sobbing uncontrollably, "But Moooom! What if there's a thunderstorm!"
A new phobia is born.
To be fair, we've had our share of thunderstorms these last few weeks. All that noise and lightning, it's a bit unnerving when you're seven. Today, though, was a gorgeous, sunny, blue-sky day. The kids were outside in it at the ballpark with their dad for Father's Day. Bevy of sunburns all around.
But the second she set foot back home, my beautiful diva became severely agoraphobic. Because of the weather.
It started off reasonably. Twice in the last week she crawled into bed with me in the wee hours of the morning, awakened by the loud bang of thunder. This is what you expect from a seven-year-old.
But it escalated from there.
By Friday, she was sitting for hours in the living room, glued to the windows. Every passing cloud she saw - whether high and white and puffy, a shadowed, pearly gray, or scarlet from the setting sun - was met with a bleak, drawn face and a panicked, "Mom, is that a thundercloud?"
Airplane passes overhead. "Mom! Do you hear thunder?"
"No. It's an airplane."
Perfectly delightful cotton ball cloud drifts by. "Mom! Is that a thundercloud??"
"No. Plain old cloud."
Gently overcast day, without a single raindrop. "Mom! Thunderclouds!"
"No. Just clouds again. See? No lightning."
Harry Potter zooms past on his Nimbus 2000. "Mom!!! Lightning!!"
Okay, I made that one up. But you get the point.
Tonight what was a simple irrational fear escalated to the point of total panic. She couldn't walk outside anymore without enormous thunderstormy angst.
So I reassured her. I told her that she'd know it's a thundercloud because she'd be able to see the lightning from far away. Thunder and lightning can't hurt us in the house, I said, and we'd have plenty of warning that a thunderstorm is coming. I explained the science of it. And we also came up with alternate theories on the weather. Such as, thunder God is bowling, and he's a poor loser so he starts crying his eyes out and throwing lightning bolts around. Made her laugh.
Otherwise, the talk-it-out approach was not working.
I finally got her outside by promising her that there would be NO thunderstorms, and that I'd tell her if I ever knew a thunderstorm was coming because I'd want her to be prepared. She liked that. She's young enough to believe that mom does know everything about everything and can also control the weather. I am like Rainman and Storm from the X-Men rolled into one. Makes me one heckuva smart autistic mutant superhero.
Desperate to do the mom thing and teach a lesson, I cited a line from my favorite movie, Strictly Ballroom: "Vivir con miedo es como vivir a medias" ... or, a life lived in fear is a life half-lived. I told her, "You can't let a little thing like being afraid of thunder keep you from having fun."
She bought it. She got out there, forgot her fear, and caught a few fireflies with her brothers. She had a great night.
We'll see how she does the next time it rains.
And from the diva? A total meltdown. She could not handle even the thought of walking out the front door. Tears streamed down her face from the mental trauma of it all. I was at a loss until she blurted out, sobbing uncontrollably, "But Moooom! What if there's a thunderstorm!"
A new phobia is born.
To be fair, we've had our share of thunderstorms these last few weeks. All that noise and lightning, it's a bit unnerving when you're seven. Today, though, was a gorgeous, sunny, blue-sky day. The kids were outside in it at the ballpark with their dad for Father's Day. Bevy of sunburns all around.
But the second she set foot back home, my beautiful diva became severely agoraphobic. Because of the weather.
It started off reasonably. Twice in the last week she crawled into bed with me in the wee hours of the morning, awakened by the loud bang of thunder. This is what you expect from a seven-year-old.
But it escalated from there.
By Friday, she was sitting for hours in the living room, glued to the windows. Every passing cloud she saw - whether high and white and puffy, a shadowed, pearly gray, or scarlet from the setting sun - was met with a bleak, drawn face and a panicked, "Mom, is that a thundercloud?"
Airplane passes overhead. "Mom! Do you hear thunder?"
"No. It's an airplane."
Perfectly delightful cotton ball cloud drifts by. "Mom! Is that a thundercloud??"
"No. Plain old cloud."
Gently overcast day, without a single raindrop. "Mom! Thunderclouds!"
"No. Just clouds again. See? No lightning."
Harry Potter zooms past on his Nimbus 2000. "Mom!!! Lightning!!"
Okay, I made that one up. But you get the point.
Tonight what was a simple irrational fear escalated to the point of total panic. She couldn't walk outside anymore without enormous thunderstormy angst.
So I reassured her. I told her that she'd know it's a thundercloud because she'd be able to see the lightning from far away. Thunder and lightning can't hurt us in the house, I said, and we'd have plenty of warning that a thunderstorm is coming. I explained the science of it. And we also came up with alternate theories on the weather. Such as, thunder God is bowling, and he's a poor loser so he starts crying his eyes out and throwing lightning bolts around. Made her laugh.
Otherwise, the talk-it-out approach was not working.
I finally got her outside by promising her that there would be NO thunderstorms, and that I'd tell her if I ever knew a thunderstorm was coming because I'd want her to be prepared. She liked that. She's young enough to believe that mom does know everything about everything and can also control the weather. I am like Rainman and Storm from the X-Men rolled into one. Makes me one heckuva smart autistic mutant superhero.
Desperate to do the mom thing and teach a lesson, I cited a line from my favorite movie, Strictly Ballroom: "Vivir con miedo es como vivir a medias" ... or, a life lived in fear is a life half-lived. I told her, "You can't let a little thing like being afraid of thunder keep you from having fun."
She bought it. She got out there, forgot her fear, and caught a few fireflies with her brothers. She had a great night.
We'll see how she does the next time it rains.
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