What, Me Worry?

I need to confess something.

I know what you’re thinking. For someone who is decidedly non-Catholic, I spend an awful lot of time confessing. Maybe I should convert. Do you know the difference between Jewish guilt and Catholic guilt?*

ANYWAY

Confession time – I am a worrywart. 

I could blame my daughter (hey, she’s not here and she probably won’t see this post). There are so many things to worry about once you become a parent. Kim Bongiorno read my mind:

Once you have a few years under your belt as a mom, the constant barrage of new-mom worries usually fades a little. If it didn’t, all of our heads would eventually get so full of question marks that they’d explode, and there’d be no one to remember to take the damn recycling out every other Tuesday morning. That being said, it’s not like we never worry at all anymore. They still slip through on a regular basis, but now lean more towards being wildly specific concerns you never thought you’d fret over. Here are common worries a typical mother might have on any given day:

1. Is it medically possible for a LEGO get permanently embedded in my foot? (maybe not, but the scars last forever!)

2. Why are my kids growing up so fast? What will I do when they leave to go have their own families? WHAT WILL I DO IF THEY DON’T EVER LEAVE TO GO HAVE THEIR OWN FAMILIES?

3. Are my kids doomed to failure if I don’t learn the new math? Because there is NO FRICKIN’ WAY I am going to try to learn math all over again!

It’s nice to know that Mom Worries are a “thing”, but although I’d like to blame the girl, I don’t want to lie (look, I don’t know what’s happening, but it appears that I no longer lie all the time. Should I be worried? Next thing you know I’ll give up swearing and beer).

I have been a worrier for as long as I can remember. Fortunately, thanks to menopause fog/Swiss cheese brain, I can’t remember back very far (memories of the hellish days of high school have faded away). 

My not-quite-New-Year’s Resolution is to break the worry habit. Bad habits are hard to break, but I have found several things that have helped me so far, as well as two others I want to try. 

1. I stopped labeling the habit. Calling a habit “bad” means that you are doing something bad, and therefore are a bad person (it’s the transitive property: if a=b and b=c, a=c). 
2. Yoga and meditation. I am well aware of the  “woo woo”/hippy-dippy stigma attached to both of them. I worried that I was turning into a stereotypical Southern California suburbanite. As it turns out “just breathe” is an excellent way to put the brakes on the downward mental spiral.
3. Exercise. I still think “exercise” is a four-letter word, but that’s okay – I love four-letter words. It will never be my favorite, but I can’t argue with the power of the endorphin rush or the calming nature of birdsong and puppies on the trail. 
4. Going outside. Didn’t you hear me say that birdsong and puppies are calming? So is the feel of grass (or sand) on bare feet – just don’t step where the puppies have been. 

The Washington post suggested two new-to-me tools:

Locate worry in your body

Worry keeps you in your head rather than feeling emotions in your body. So, when you find yourself worrying, pause and refocus attention on your sensations. Look for the usual signs — heart beating faster; weakness; warmth; stiffness; a dry, constricted throat; rapid breathing; or butterflies in the stomach. Explore them. Maybe move your body to see if that changes how you feel. Stretch. Sit up straight. Breathe. Practice riding the wave of your feelings. They will rise and fall, even without you doing anything.

Make worry concrete and contained

Next, tune into your worried thoughts. Treat yourself like a friend who needs you to lend an ear. If you have a jumble of thoughts, what’s the one that rises to the surface? You can also schedule worry time: Pick a specific period of time to worry (for example, 15 minutes). Write down all the worries that pop into your head and describe them clearly and concretely. Consider the negative outcomes, as well as the positive possibilities. Only worry during worry time. It might surprise you to find that during worry time, you become bored of worrying and stop early.

I worry less knowing that I am not alone. According to this recent article form the Los Angeles time, worry and anxiety are on the rise – ok, anxiety and depression. Whatever – I guess I lied (so much for giving up that bad habit). There is discussion as to whether mental health issues or on the rise, or if they just appear to be because there is a greater awareness of and willing to talk about them. Personally, I blame all the bad and sad blasted by the news outlets 24/7. Which reminds me of the thing that has helped me the most:

5. Turning off the television/radio/phone. Limiting screen time isn’t only important for children. Decreasing the amount of time we spend listening to/watching stories of disasters/violence/hatred is vital to our mental health. I’m not suggesting  you bury your head in the sand (and not just because the sand will get into your eyes and nose and make breathing difficult) – I’m saying that we don’t have to listen to the same story 10+ times in a 24-hour period. Seriously. Where’s John Krasinski’s Some Good News when you need him?

Lastly, don’t forget the wise words of Mark Twain (or George Washington or Will Rogers or any of the other wise worriers from our past). 

Better yet, we should all be more like Alfred E Neuman

*Same guilt, different food

I’ll leave you with the cutest worry warts I’ve ever seen. I need these for my desk – looking at them would make me stop worrying and LOL.

image and sculptures by gesine kratzner

I Confess!

I have to make a confession, which is difficult, since I’m not Catholic. I don’t have anything against Catholicism, but I have enough guilt already thankyouverymuch (and don’t get me started on the whole 40 days of penance thing. I can give up anything for a day, but 40?)

But I diGreg (if you’re not following Greg Kata on all the social media platforms, you’re missing out)

I hate stupid people. Wait. Hate is a very strong word.

I have an intense dislike for stupid people. Nope. that’s not much better.

I don’t have any tolerance for stupidity. There That’s better.

I’m not talking about people with a learning disability, and don’t get me started on our current education system; hiring teachers without degrees, paying teachers slave wages, teaching to the test and promoting students because we don’t want to cause psychological harm (evidently being illiterate is less damaging to the psyche).

I’m talking about lack of common sense. Common sense isn’t (common, that is).

I think the blame lies equally with warning labels and society/overprotective parents.

I grew up in the dark ages, when televsions had rabbit ears and phones were hard-wired into the wall. My childhood was fraught with danger – cars without seatbelts and dangerous toys (lawn darts and skates with metal wheels that didn’t turn and weird shoes with springs on the bottom) and death-defying playgrounds (steel slides and weird metal merry-go-rounds that flung you off onto the pavement). We managed to make even the safest playground equipment dangerous with death drops from the bars and leaps from the swings at the top of their arc. We were locked out of our houses on weekends and summers – forced to run in packs and drink from hoses from dawn until dusk.

death skates

death shoes

death spin

mom’s lifeline

static machine

death toy

If you got hurt, you were supposed to go to the nearest “block parent’s” house.

Block parents had a card in the window saying they were a “safe house.” HA! Nobody’s house was safe. Our houses had open electrical outlets that begged for insertion of pennies, bookcases that wobbled dangerously when you passed by and cleaning products that were left on the counter. Oh! Let’s not forget to mention medication without those child-proof safety locks that only a child can open.

I grew up at a time where only the fastest, strongest and most quick-witted survived, which was perfect preparation for the coming zombie apocalypse.

Kids nowadays (I am both frightened and excited by my willingness to use that phrase) may not have it easy (they don’t) – but their lives are much safer now that everything comes with a warning label. Some of them are necessary (who else thinks silica gel packets look like Chicklets?). Some of them are funny (the National Park Service recently posted warnings to toad lickers). Most of them are mind-boggling:

Warning on a blow dryer: Do not use while sleeping (?? I’ve heard of sleepwalking and sleep-eating, but never sleep-styling).

Warning on a shirt: Do not iron while wearing (this seems obvious to me).

Warning on a jet ski: Never use a lit match or open flame to check fuel level (someone needed to be warned against this?)

My favorite warning label comes from this 2011 Forbes article on dumb warning labels:

Because “Flinging it Frisbee-style at your little brother could cause some damage. Then there’s that whole drowning-in-the milk thing. Breakfast is dangerous!”

Sigh. We have “warning labeled” our world away from Darwin’s survival of the fittest.

But you know what we call those people who have been saved by warning labels?

Zombie fodder

So tell me – what warning label has made you laugh the hardest?

Have a great day, a fantastic weekend and, as always, see you in the not-so-distant future

Love,

Me

My mom’s connection to the outside world

*I confess – I really DO hate stupid people, but I love perpetual kid’s finger puppet confessional. You can find their products here
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New Year, Mostly Same Ol’ Me

Happy New Year!

I’d like to start with an apology – I’m sorry that I’ve been MIA. I could blame grief, writer’s block and that big black dog, but I didn’t want to lie. Which is weird. If you’ve been here before, you know that I lie all the time.

Today feels different, and not just because it’s night. I’m scheduling tonight’s post for tomorrow morning, which means that today is tomorrow and that old me is talking to future you. What’s it like in the future? Do you have flying cars and robot maids? 

It’s been a while since last I wrote, but I can’t say why. Well, I CAN, but (as I have recently learned) the why is not important. 

I almost titled today’s (tomorrow’s?) post “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” but

1. I didn’t want to get sued for copyright infringement
2. I don’t have a motorcycle
3. I am nowhere close to being Zen. I think I could best be described as a cat on a hot tin roof who’s in a dither because she’s going to have kittens.

I have spent the past 6 months trying to be more Zen and less chaotic evil (and, to be be perfectly honest, dealing with grief, writer’s block and that damned black dog). My search for my life’s purpose has been…interesting. I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, but I’ve come to the realization that I need to figure it out “soon.” I’m not saying that I’m old, but AARP and Medicare seem to feel otherwise. 

The most interesting thing about my search for meaning (other than realizing that I forget to breathe when I meditate and that my arms are too short for yoga) is finding out that most of my traits are simply coping mechanisms. That’s right – all the things that make me “me” (perfectionism, empathy, attention to detail, anxiety, hypervigilance…) are nothing more than a response to trauma. 

So I have to ask – what happens when I’m done with all the navel-gazing? When I heal from my past trauma, who will I be? If I become someone else, will I need to find yet another purpose?

Uggghhhhhhhh…..This whole “New Year New Me” is not for the weak. I think I’ll just embrace the new year and go back to being the old me. I may not know who I am, but I’ve lived with myself for a long time and I’ve gotten used to all my quirks. It’s Tuesday, so I think I’ll take myself out for tacos and a margarita (or two). We can talk about our trauma and debate the benefits of hot yoga.

I know we’re two weeks in, but I’d like to close with my favorite New Year’s wish: