‘That’s not very nice’ he kept repeating from his bedroom. His sing songy voice going between that phrase and ‘the wheels on the bus go round and round.’
It was meant to be his naptime but my 2 year old wasn’t having a bar of it. A bottle of milk perhaps, but no nap.
I’d laid him in his cot after a big morning out at play group. It had already been an interesting morning starting with him not wanting to put on his clothes. I’d pull his pants up (soft leggings because ‘jeans are too cold’ apparently) and then he would wiggle out of them.
Then later on he was swinging my button necklace round and because I was scared he was about to whip me with it I pushed his hand away from me firmly.
One of my core values is adventure.
I love travelling, I love getting off the beaten track, I love trying new things (as long as I don’t feel like I am going to die in the process- fear of heights much…)
But I’ve felt lately that over the years that adventurous spirit has died down a bit all in the name of routine.
I remember the girl who would get out in all her clothes in a storm and just twirl in the rain and open my mouth to catch the droplets…
When we were in Italy it was amazing. We spent 3 weeks sinking into culture, pasta and nature. We were there during the freak snow storm in 2010 which shut down airports. We were stuck on the way to Pisa to see the Leaning Tower and arrived quite late, to be turned around in the freezing cold to wait several more hours to get back to our accommodation.
At the end of the trip I started to get snuffly. I’m guessing all that snow, travel, not to mention pollution was sending my poor asthma haywire and my nose to drip like a tap.
So we entered a little pharmacy inside Termini Station. Of course, the assistant didn’t bother to help us. She attended all the locals, chatting up a storm with her sing songy voice. I picked up the box to see what it was as it was written in Italian. It looked like a packet of Strepsils as it had the same imaging on it but I wasn’t sure. I was hoping that by picking it up that she would come over and offer assistance.
Beep, beep, flash, flash,
Stomp on the brakes.
“You can’t make me go faster than I need to go!”
Yet you still drive up my butt.
Anger rages inside me,
I give you the middle finger,
You back away,
But I feel angry.
I love a good counselling session. It feels good to talk and unravel stuff I’ve tucked back into the recesses of my mind.
As I untangle those knotted cords of confusion and low self-esteem, I find new ways of doing and being.
This session in particular I came armed with wanting to work on one anxiety trigger in particular.
The “I’m in trouble” trigger.
You know the one I’m talking about. You noticed that you have a missed call from your boss and you go into automatic “Wahhhh oh my gosh I’m in trouble mode.” Or someone has resting bitch face on and you ask them “Is everything ok? Did I do something wrong?” Or perhaps you’ve been asked to present at a meeting and you do so because heck yeah for an opportunity to show off your PowerPoint mad as skills…
I wasn’t always a bad sleeper.
When we were young and even right up until I left home after high school, we were made to go to bed by 8:30pm. Phone calls (on an actual landline) were not allowed to be made or received after 8am.
I remember thinking it was soooooooo stupid. I wasn’t tired and I wanted to talk to my bestie (and trail the long curly phone cord down the hallway and away from listening ears of course. I mean, we’d be probably talking about that cute boy in class, or something about Jesus. I know the 2 topics seem such a contrast but hey, we were teenagers not nuns).
I’d get up at 6am because I had gone to bed so early. I remember thinking this is weird.
Walking around the shopping centre, with a wee toddler’s little hand in tow, I rushed him across the car park. Suddenly I realised, his poor little feet were pounding the pavement super quick cause I was walking too fast.
Sad mama face.
I slowed down. I went with his pace and even if I wanted to race up to get all the things done, I stopped and slowed it down again.
Your anxiety has you racing fast doesn’t it? (Like when you’re being chased by birds – oh wait, that’s me…anyone else relate?)
It’s June. Mid-year madness around here.
I’ve just finished writing high school reports as part of the requirements of my teaching job and getting over the latest cold.
It’s been a season of surrender and I’m not good at it. I want to do ALL.THE.THINGS but God says, “Not right now.”
So I ignore Him.
I revert back to my default self, like a toddler chucking a temper tantrum. I don’t want to deal with the emotions right now, so I scroll mindlessly, while cosied up under a doona, while hacking up my lungs and dipping bikkies in my tea.
Sometimes all you can do is cry.
Like big ugly, rub all the snot on your grey cardigan kinda cry. (Cause grey oversized cardis with pockets are my jam at the moment).
I mean, you’ve tried negotiating…
Perhaps you’ve even yelled…
Ugh! I am so itchy!
I had gotten to a point where I had scratched up all of my legs because it was insatiably itchy.
My arms were itchy, my legs were itchy, well you get the point. EVERYTHING WAS ITCHY!
So after exhausting all my natural health options I headed off to the doctors.
While there I mentioned my hand with the bumps on it that had been there for months. I had enquired back then with a different doctor and he said ‘oh they are just age spots.’
I said ‘really? Well why are they itchy?’ The doctor replied ‘They can get itchy.’
Fast forward to recent and I thought I would get a second opinion.