Rowan had his hearing test yesterday. It was at Duke Children’s Hospital, which is part of what we call “big Duke,” (aka the main hospital). This meant parking in the main Duke parking deck and walking through the underground tunnel into the hospital.
I figured the time around Rowan’s birthday would throw some hard days my way, as memories were dredged up and pushed to the front of my brain in a way they haven’t been in a while. I expected moments of sadness over everything surrounding his birth and the time after — the bittersweet joy of his first birthday.
This week. Three repubs on Huffington Post. An original post on Scary Mommy. Scary Mommy also picked up one of the Huffington Post essays. I got a syndication offer. Thousands upon thousands of likes, comments, and shares.
I was too busy with sick people to get my #TBT post up yesterday. I thought about backdating it, but decided just to make this week #FBF instead.
I’ve spent an enormous amount of mental energy forging routes around fear; taking the long way to avoid those scary woods. It’s an exhausting and isolated path, full of its own obstacles and lacking a GPS signal. My way was studded with compulsion and hidden distress, holding myself responsible for outcomes and creating imaginary control where I had none. I hid it well, which only served to make the road more desolate.
The line between quirky and weird seemed to be stuck between my fingers. That feeling when you eat a donut or an ice cream cone and the residue makes your fingers so sticky that you desperately want to find a sink? That’s how they felt. Licking them would help – for a few minutes. Little kids are sticky, and I spent a lot of time licking between my fingers for momentary relief. It drove my parents crazy – we’d be in a public place, and there I was licking my hands like a compulsive cat. And if that wasn’t enough to embarrass every adult responsible for me, sometimes I would get a similar feeling in the back of my throat – this annoying build up of faux pressure that had to be released, and the only way was to make squeaky sounds. Sometimes on inhale, sometimes on exhale, always until a magic point when everything felt better – until the next time. Seams of socks and waistbands constricted, so I turned my socks inside out, and wore my pants around my hips to free myself from their ever-present annoyance. Things just felt wrong and it was a puzzle to make them right again.
The summer child is running, the summer child is running again.
The summer child is running, the summer child is running again
When you hear the feet and the sound of laughter,
Better step aside for the mayhem after
Here she comes, yeah the summer child is running again.
– Dar Williams