There is a weight on my chest today, making it hard to breathe. It feels like a combination of heartburn and fear, but its source is a little elusive. There’s no reason for me to be anxious. Life is good.
I recently shared with a friend (as if it were a shameful secret) that things are going incredibly well. My marriage is solid. My kids are thriving. I’m feeling organized and successful at work. I lost two pounds this week (only 78 to go!) and I launched my blog yesterday. And then, I shared my fear that all this success isn’t sustainable. As if I were over-cultivating my garden. I’m enjoying this harvest, but I can’t expect it to last.
So it doesn’t. Perhaps it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. This fear of things falling apart leads me to perceive that things are falling apart. A rather innocuous email from my son’s teacher feels like an accusation (“Did I see the homework agenda last night?”). An overcooked dinner feels like a personal failure, and a simple observation from my husband on the phone (“You seem distracted”) feels like an attack.
This unease and anxiety is contagious, and I find myself in the unfortunate position of dealing with a crying, stressed out child in the midst of battling this weight on my chest. Even the dogs sense my mood; they beg for affection that I’m unable to give.
So I breathe. I pour a glass of chardonnay or a cup of tea. I pet the dog I don’t feel like petting and I hug the kid who isn’t acting particularly lovable. Sometimes I cry and explain to my kids that grownups have feelings too. Sometimes we commiserate, because these perceptive children also occasionally confess to me that they feel like crying, but they’re not sure why.
It seems like it should be so simple. My brain clarifies that there is NO ACTUAL PROBLEM. There are imagined slights and differences in perspective and heightened sensitivity. There are anxieties and fears but none of these things have manifested into anything real. They exist only in my overactive brain and I should be able to control them or at least turn down the volume of the noise. But this does not always come naturally.
I have a bedtime routine with the kids. They’re too old for it, but neither they nor I seem to want to let it go. Each night before bed, they get ‘mom cuddles.’ Sometimes this is a chapter from a shared story and tickles and slow, sleepy stories about what happened at school. Sometimes it is shouting and nagging and frustrated reminders like, “I love you, too, but for the love of God; please stop talking.” Most often it falls somewhere in the distracted middle of motherhood. I sniff his head and remember that I forgot to remind him to shower. I make a mental list of the tasks I will accomplish once they fall asleep. I beg for them to stop moving and talking and asking rhetorical questions.
But the beauty happens as the squirming stops and the chatter subsides. Their breathing slows and, instinctively, mine does, too. This is a moment of peace. The simplicity and beauty of sleepiness swirls around with a gratitude that is hard to find at any other time in my day. This is why the ‘mom cuddles’ continue, and why my heart will break a little when they end.