#AtoZChallenge: ‘Z’ is for Zzzzz

I mentioned having bad anxiety in a previous post. I have generalized anxiety disorder, so my brain tends to escalate situations at times, to put it mildly. While the whole “feeling like I’m having a heart attack” thing sucks, it has created some funny situations. I wasn’t able to laugh at the time these situations were happening, of course, but definitely had a chuckle afterwards.

Baby Girl has not been good for my anxiety. Kids will create anxiety in any parent, even those who are typically pretty calm about things, but Baby Girl is another story. Where Little Man was always my easy child who listened and didn’t do things that were remotely dangerous (he didn’t do anything to indicate needing child-proof anything a single time, even though we had it), Baby Girl has necessitated purchasing every single child safety device known to man. She can also be a bit of a daredevil at times.

Like the time when she had just turned one and couldn’t walk, yet she managed to stand on one leg on top of a toy with wheels.

And she loves jumping off the step at the top of the porch. If her brother who is 6.5 years older than her can do it safely, then so can she, in her mind.


We haven’t ended up in the ER yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

Baby Girl stayed in her pack-n-play for a long time. (She hated the crib, but we had a good mattress in the pack-n-play, so it was comfortable for her.) Up until her third birthday, there was no need for a big girl bed, as she was too short to attempt climbing out. After she finally did climb out, though, we bought her a big girl bed, and that’s when the night terrors started.

And by “night terrors,” I don’t mean those dreadful nightmares that cause kids to wake up screaming. She’s the one responsible for scaring the crap out of me.

Whenever I hear a noise in the night, I get freaked out, thinking someone might be breaking into the house. And despite being hard of hearing (, I tend to hear a lot of noises, noises that my husband who hears perfectly fine doesn’t hear (overactive imagination, much?). One night I heard something and sat up in the bed, waiting to see if I would hear it again and would need to wake up my husband to go check out the source of the noise. Just then, my doorknob jiggled.

Spoiler alert: we weren’t.

‘Twas no madman — just a toddler.

This one has happened quite a few times. I’ve told Baby Girl to call us over her monitor to come and get her when she wakes up, but she runs in our room every time.

One night I didn’t fully wake up when she opened the door to the bedroom, but I did moments later. In that state between being asleep and waking, I had a feeling of being watched. I woke up to this:

That’s not the only time she’s done that creepy staring thing, either. I’ve woken up in the morning to her sitting beside my pillow staring at me with her face just a few inches from mine. Once I woke up during the night to find Little Man doing the same thing. I asked what he was doing, and he said “watching you,” which didn’t lessen the creep factor.

So, thanks, dear children — especially Baby Girl — for making my anxiety worse.

And that’s a wrap for the A to Z Challenge! Wow! Tomorrow I’ll do a wrap-up post for the challenge. Thanks for sticking around all month! 

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#AtoZChallenge: ‘I’ is for I’m Dying

This Blast to the Past post is a repost. It was originally published as “I’m Having A Hot Flash WHERE?” in August.

People with anxiety disorder know how it is — the least little thing can mean impending doom health-wise. Headaches are brain tumors, stomach pain from that questionable taco you ate could be cancer. Bluish colored streaks on one’s neck are only God knows what, but surely awful (or it could be getting your recently dyed hair wet).

Several months ago, I was driving to pick up Baby Girl from preschool when my bottom suddenly felt hot all over. Alarmed, I tried to feel around to see if I was suddenly bleeding out or something. That would be bad, because not only would I be bleeding out, the car seat in my husband’s car had been dismantled because Baby Girl had puked all over it the night before. As such, my husband would have no way of getting her because I’d be at the hospital with the non-puked on car seat. Shit!

After swerving off the side of the road and determining that there was no blood, I continued panicking. Why was my butt having a hot flash? Was I on the verge of death, or maybe it was something less serious, like experiencing a side effect of one of my medications? Or maybe I had an infection that I would have to figure out how to deal with on my own, since there was no way I was going to a doctor to discuss an infected butt region.

I freaked out some more, trying to come up with more explanations for my bottom being hot all over. I debated on going into a gas station bathroom, which I rarely do because that definitely makes me feel like I’m dying (seriously, I’d rather risk an accident than use most public restrooms), and checking myself out. Maybe I could use my phone camera to get a good look, only what if I accidentally hit the wrong button and went live on Facebook or something? Gah.

And then it hit me — we have the ability to heat the seats in our car. Being someone who suffers from chronic swampassitis for 6 or 7 months of the year (screw you, humid South Carolina), and having only bought the car a few months earlier at the beginning of the swampassitis season, I had never used that option. And I probably never will. So, maybe it wasn’t that I was dying, but that my husband had turned on the thing that heats the seats.

I called my husband. “How do I check to see if the heated seat thing is on in the car? Is there a button or something?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” he said. “I turned it on. The button is underneath the radio and all that stuff.” I found it, saw the green light was lit, and turned it off. The heat on my bottom quickly went away. Crisis diverted — Baby Girl could be picked up and I wouldn’t have to go to the ER to discuss my hot (for once in my life) ass.

Thanks for joining me for the April A to Z Challenge! If you’re participating, please leave a link in the comments section so I can check out your post.

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I’m Having A Hot Flash WHERE?

People with anxiety disorder know how it is — the least little thing can mean impending doom health-wise. Headaches are brain tumors, stomach pain from that questionable taco you ate could be cancer. Bluish colored streaks on one’s neck are only God knows what, but surely awful (or it could be getting your recently dyed hair wet).

Several months ago, I was driving to pick up Baby Girl from preschool when my bottom suddenly felt hot all over. Alarmed, I tried to feel around to see if I was suddenly bleeding out or something. That would be bad, because not only would I be bleeding out, the car seat in my husband’s car had been dismantled because Baby Girl had puked all over it the night before. As such, my husband would have no way of getting her because I’d be at the hospital with the non-puked on car seat. Shit!

After swerving off the side of the road and determining that there was no blood, I continued panicking. Why was my butt having a hot flash? Was I on the verge of death, or maybe it was something less serious, like experiencing a side effect of one of my medications? Or maybe I had an infection that I would have to figure out how to deal with on my own, since there was no way I was going to a doctor to discuss an infected butt region.

I freaked out some more, trying to come up with more explanations for my bottom being hot all over. I debated on going into a gas station bathroom, which I rarely do because that definitely makes me feel like I’m dying (seriously, I’d rather risk an accident than use most public restrooms), and checking myself out. Maybe I could use my phone camera to get a good look, only what if I accidentally hit the wrong button and went live on Facebook or something? Gah.

And then it hit me — we have the ability to heat the seats in our car. Being someone who suffers from chronic swampassitis for 6 or 7 months of the year (screw you, humid South Carolina), and having only bought the car a few months earlier at the beginning of the swampassitis season, I had never used that option. And I probably never will. So, maybe it wasn’t that I was dying, but that my husband had turned on the thing that heats the seats.

I called my husband. “How do I check to see if the heated seat thing is on in the car? Is there a button or something?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” he said. “I turned it on. The button is underneath the radio and all that stuff.” I found it, saw the green light was lit, and turned it off. The heat on my bottom quickly went away. Crisis diverted — Baby Girl could be picked up and I wouldn’t have to go to the ER to discuss my hot (for once in my life) ass.

Have you ever gone into crisis mode over something silly?

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