Fragmented and repetitive thoughts clash and clatter off the corners of my brain, filling the space between with jagged shards of worry, spiraling themselves into twisted chaos.

Future, rational thoughts are trapped…caught in the web of anxiety, unable to escape. Unable to regain control. The turbulence just beyond their grasp. They reach their outstretched arms through the murky, unyielding barrier between them and the reasonless swarm of uncertainty and anguish…desperate to break through and calm the churning storm. But for now, ultimately failing.

The frenzied thoughts continue to writhe and spin, on and ever on.


We’re Goin Down, I’m yellin Timber

11 minutes into my walk on the treadmill. Inner voice chatting away. “I’ll walk for 9 more minutes, and then I think I’ll tackle all of the Christmas decorations that have been clogging up the hallway and getting in the way of any fun to be had in the basement. Maybe I’ll even bag up all these toys the kids don’t play with anymore. I’m going to get so much don—-”

My 9 year old son dodges ornaments and old ride on toys to walk over to the treadmill. “Mom, Sarah (6 years old) burned her finger. She’s upstairs with dad.” I shut the treadmill off and hear screams coming from the kitchen. I run upstairs, having an idea of what I’ll see, a burn. My husband pulls off the paper towel, but it’s not a burn as expected, but a cut. A pretty deep cut. Nothing too gruesome. But a deep enough cut for my head to start spinning thoughts of maybe needing to go to the ER.

As I’m standing there, looking at her little finger, with the unexpected wound, I start to feel it. The queasy feeling. The “everything is starting to look weird” faint feeling. “I’m…uhhh…not feeling so good.” I tell my husband, who responds with “Neither am I.” This is where it gets almost comical.

He hands her off to me, despite having just told him I was feel pretty ooky. He stumbles his way across the kitchen, banging into the chair he’s trying to get to, almost misses the seat entirely, and finally sits down. His face white as a ghost.

I muster up enough mom strength to get my daughter over to the chairs as well. And then another wave of horribleness hits, so I immediately pass her off to my husband who hasn’t quite recovered. I put my head between my knees as I’m on the brink of passing out. My poor daughter is still crying this whole time and saying how she isn’t feeling so good either. We.are.a.HOT.MESS. What the heck do you do when both parents are close to lights out because of a little cut?

You call in the big brother! Since he was the only who could walk at this point, he was called to duty. “Ryan! Get some cookies over here! We all need one! Oh, Sarah wants a Popsicle, can you please get her one??? Ryan! We need the bandaids. Ryan! Paper towels!” He surprisingly performed all of our frantic requests with no complaints.

My husband has regained some color back in his face and has some control at this point. He keeps our daughter on his lap (since I’d probably drop her), while I slowly make my way to the computer to google when you know if you need stitches. I come back to the kitchen a couple minutes later, whiter than before. “I can’t look at that anymore. Just reading about it is making me feel like passing out…uuuugh.” I resume my position of head between the knees. I’m really doing a stellar “mom taking care of boo boos” job right now.

Very cutely, Sarah asks for her brother to come hold her hand while her daddy tends more to the wound (the wound I cannot look at for fear of mom hitting the floor). And big brother very cutely obliges, whispering in her ear, “It’s okay. shhhhh. It’s okay.” I swear they kill me sometimes.

It all ends with all of us flopping out on the couch and watching a movie. Needless to say that basement stuff is still sitting there several days later.