Tiny Paragraphs : Anxiety

Deep Diving in Shallow Water

Shannon — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 00:28:00 GMT

I was standing in the 3 foot end of our neighborhood pool, when four-year-old Cole said, “Mommy, look what I can do!” From the pool deck beside me, he did a perfect dive that arched straight toward the bottom of the pool.

Horrified, I yanked him up from the water in a panic. He was fine, but I wasn’t.

Like most moms, I try to protect my kids from peril, which lurks around every corner. But in this case, I'd never even warned Cole about diving risks because I didn't know he knew how to dive!

Sometimes, even when I do warn about hot stoves and electrical outlets, my kids don’t listen. Bottom line: I am not in control. I might think I am, but I'm not. The smaller my child, the more convincing the mirage that I have control over his fate. But whether he's crossing the street under my watchful gaze or dating an alcoholic behind my back, I mustn't hope in my ability to warn and control my child.

My hope is in the Lord. No matter how deep the dive, his arms are there, holding all things together for his purposes (Col. 1:16-17)

Locked In

Shannon — Fri, 04 Jun 2010 14:44:00 GMT

I was scheduled to be induced at 3:00. Ken, always the supportive husband, was home from work by 12:00. What better way to make use of his support than to leave for a last minute shopping run? I wouldn’t be going out much after baby #3 arrived. Plus, I reaaaaally needed to find something to wear home from the hospital.

At 2:15, I was still in the dressing room at Kohl’s. This was a bad idea. Did I really think I’d be able to tell how these clothes would fit post partum? Each item I had plucked from the rack had at least 2% spandex, but come on.

Deciding to ditch the whole effort, I reached for the door. It didn’t move.

I jiggled the latch. No budge.

I tugged it harder. This door was stuck.

I started to feel very hot, very panicky, and very pregnant. I looked at the little passage beneath the door and eyeballed its height in contrast with my protruding stomach.  Not happening. I checked my watch. 2:17. Ten minutes to get home.  Twenty to get to the hospital.

I began banging on the door. “HELP!!! Is anybody out there?” Of course, there were twenty women out there. This was Kohl’s. Two women came to my rescue, and talked calmly to me through the dressing room door. I felt like a kitty stuck up a tree (a very large kitty). I knew I wasn’t where I should be right now, but I just couldn’t get myself free!

My new friends on the other side of the door suggested that I keep jiggling the latch.   Could I tap it with something hard? A lipstick tube or something? One went to get an employee. As we waited, I sobbed to the other, “I’m pregnant and I was supposed to be induced at 3:00. But I’m stuuuuuuck!!!” I think she didn’t know what to say.

I can’t even remember how the Kohl’s employee unlocked the door. I think she tapped under the latch through the crack in the door with something. I just remember swinging that door open and launching my large, pregnant self out of that tiny cubical! The air conditioning blew my sweaty hair back from my forehead as I waddled my swollen feet forward. I was free!!!

There are times that I lock myself in spiritually, too. I convince myself that this little place, tucked safely away from whatever God wants to birth in me, is where I want to be.  What's coming is sure to be painful, and I just want to ignore it.

It’s only when the door sticks that I realize I’m actually not locked in; I’m locked out! The thing that God wants to birth in me—whether it’s self control, kindness, or humility—is the good thing. My little cubical of self-indulgence, pride, or anger is not where I want to stay.

Look, Mom! Two Hands!

Shannon — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 19:05:00 GMT

These are the eight remaining mittens in the bottom of our closet. Some are black, others navy. Some are large, others small. Thankfully, there are a couple of left-handed ones in the bunch.

The two on the bottom right actually match each other, but their purple stripe renders them useless to Cade, who will not wear 'girl colors'. Non-matching mittens are also a problem for Cade. They must be identical. And when Cade cannot locate two boy-colored, matching mittens, his problem becomes my problem.

I feel this heavy maternal responsibility for the temperature of my child's hands. He insists that he can go to school mittenless. His hands will stay warm. But what sort of mother puts her kindergärtner on the bus with no mittens? Not wanting to be that sort, I scrounge in the closet, search the lost-and-found, and return to the winter-wear aisle at the store. He is sent off each morning with warm hands and kiss. But alas... when my young son steps off the bus, he is usually, again, one mitten shy of a match.

Which creates a rerun of the same show the next morning. "Cade, let's check your backpack for your mittens.... Where is the other one? Did you remember to look at school? Ok... Let me see if we have some here..." The pre-bus minutes seem to accelerate when I am on a matching mitten hunt. It is incredibly stressful. Yet my children find this to be the perfect moment to tickle each other or chase the puppy. Which, of course, adds to my stress. No one in my family understands how frustrating this is to me.

No one, that is, except my mother. She says that she knows just how I feel.

Look mom! Two hands... wearing the exact same mittens I had in October! (Good thing they're a girl color!)

There is hope.

An Un-Tied Game

Shannon — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 02:36:00 GMT

Cole's winning shot in the last 15 seconds of his soccer game on Saturday warmed me with motherly pride. When we got home, I was excited to pop my memory stick into my laptop. Did I get his great moment on digi-film? I smiled as I clicked through the shots, noticing Cole's determination, his skill, his love of the game.

Then, suddenly, my motherly pride converted to motherly horror. I zoomed in on one section of the picture. Could it be? Were my son’s soccer cleats…. untied? Oh, no! My mind skipped back to pre-game. I hadn't been the one to drop him off. Sending him out the door, I had checked off water, ball, and uniform, but his shoes had been under his arm.

As I zoomed in on each new picture of shoelaces bouncing around the grass and flying near soccer balls, my anxiety mounted. Had he played the entire game with untied shoes?? How could I have been so negligent? How could I not have noticed from the sidelines? Had other parents noticed? Had his coach seen? Had he handicapped his team? Why hadn't he tied his shoes??? I could feel my blood pressure rising.

But then I remembered. The game was over. The cleats were piled in the garage. There was no use tying them now… or tying myself in knots. What was making me anxious anyway? Peter links anxiety to lack of humility in I Peter 5:6-7. And he's got a point. But for my pride, why else would I be upset about Cole's laces after the game? So, humbly I said, "Lord, I'm not looking like Mom-of-the-Year, here. I’ll remind my boy about his laces, but will you take care of him?" Then, I slung my anxiety up on the Lord’s back and went to make Cole a victory dinner.