My Brain Doesn’t Trust Itself

adventures of the everydayI’ve been working at my job for fourteen years.  Fourteen years, guys.  I feel almost as at home in that building as I do… well, at home.  I know my coworkers’ rhythms, I know the routines, the programs, and the schedules — even the off-season ones.  I’ve been working Extended School Year itself for a decade, missing only the year when I was halfway through my pregnancy and (literally) couldn’t stand the heat.  I’ve worked every grade level, every skill level, every permutation.

All this to say, I know my job, okay?  So then why, for the love of Christ, did I spend an hour this morning freaking out over the absolute most basic aspects of my assignment?

And this happens every goddamned year, too.  Always, without fail.  First, I have a shitty night’s sleep the previous night, because I’m wound up and anxious about the start of something “new” (every iteration of a “first day” elicits this reaction in me — transitioning is hard).  Then, I get through the night, get up, get ready, and go, and spend the entire ride to work checking and double checking my bag, convinced I’ve forgotten something (this at least has precedence, because I forget something roughly, oh, every other day or so.  What’s awful is that once I’ve checked for and found said item, I’ll still stop and check for it at least three more times.  Lest it be summoned into the ether, for Christ’s sake).

Then I get to work — super early, too, because I have to carpool, and I only have the one ride.  You’d think that getting there early would be relaxing, right?  No rushing, just sit down, settle in, maybe bring a book?  And it gets to be; after the first day jitters are over and done with, it’s nice getting there more than an hour early and just sort of chilling.  But that first day?

Today I spent literally an hour doing laps and growing increasingly anxious that:

  1. I was in the wrong building.  The wrong building, people.  It’s always been this building.  It’s only ever been this building.
  2. That I had the date wrong.  You know, the same date it’s been forever and always into perpetuity (the Monday after the 4th)?  The date that was in my planner, on Google calendar, and in the three separate emails I got over the last few weeks reminding me about ESY??

And it’s gonna happen again tomorrow!!  You know how I know?  Because it’s already started.  I’m already second guessing where I’m supposed to be (this is a separate program conducted off-site), even though this program has always had me meet at the same place, and I confirmed twice with the lead that the schedule and routine was the same as last year.  Twice.  A program that I, again, have worked before (though granted not as long term, this is only (“only“) my fourth year).

But logic isn’t going to shake this anxiety.  Logic never does.  I am going to feel antsy and slightly panicky literally until I see my lead walk up to the building tomorrow morning, and that kind of sucks, but I don’t know what else to do about it.

After tomorrow?  Ah, the rest of the summer should be smooth sailing.  I’m honestly really looking forward to it!  But these first two days, man.  These first two days, my brain just short-circuits and it’s non-stop panic mode.

Hopefully I can get a decent night’s sleep, and find quick respite in the morning.

Fuck Anxiety Brain.

Children and the Relentless Onslaught of Time

adventures of the everydayThe last few weeks, even more so than usual, has been one long reminder of the relentlessness of time.

This should not be some grand revelation.  I know I’m getting older, you know?  Like, unquestionably.  My joints make noises that if, say, my car was making, it’d be in the shop the same day.  One beer, and I’m falling asleep at the dinner table.  And this past year, I realized I have a favorite goddamn Tupperware¹ — that’s game over, folks.  That’s peak Old Person, right there.

But I have the context of years to gauge my change, you know?  Everything that I’m cognizant of everything that defines me as a person, has come to be over the course of years.  And at some point, I don’t want to say I stopped growing, but I definitely hit a plateau.  Twenty-seven-year old Jess was a totally different person than seventeen-year-old Jess, but twenty-seven year old Jess and  thirty-seven-year old Jess have a hell of a lot in common (minus a penchant for painting, a few stretch marks, and about fourteen inches of hair), even though the same ten years separate them.

That’s because at some point we just sort of stop Becoming, and just… Are.  We spend years and years figuring things out, making major cognitive, social, and emotional leaps, and then — for most of us — that all sort of tapers off.  It’s not that we don’t still grow and change, but at some point in our adult lives, personal revelations and milestones generally become a lot fewer and further between.

But having a kid has thrown my sense of time out the window.  Because my son is four-and-a-half and still very much Becoming, and he is Becoming at a pace that is astounding, and exciting, and relentless.

Because in his life, absolutely fucking everything is revelatory.  Everything in his life is felt with the intensity of the novel: an Experience, or an Adventure, or a Tragedy.  He’s hitting new milestones at a breakneck pace, waking up some mornings suddenly able to do something or understand something that he’d be struggling with hours before sleep the previous night.  New words are entering his vocabulary everyday, and his ability to regulate, read, and respond to his own and other peoples’ emotions with nuance is growing and developing constantly.

And now he’s starting pre-K.

And we’re jumping in with both feet.  No half-day, three-days-a-week trail period; starting in September, Bear will be at school from 7:45 to 3:15, five days a week.  He has a uniform.  He’ll pack a snack and eat a served breakfast and lunch.  He’ll have music and theatre recitals, he’ll do art projects.  He’ll learn to read.

Jesus.

It’s scary. I mean, it’s ridiculously exciting, too, but also scary, to see the last remaining vestiges of the Baby I’ve coddled for the last four years fall away and reveal, like, a Big Kid.  Someone who gets their own food from the fridge, uses the potty by himself, picks out his own clothes and dresses himself, and now, goes to school.  Someone who’s sphere of influence is about to grow dramatically.

That does scare me.  I’m ecstatic for my son to meet new people — he is social and sociable almost to a fault (“I have no stranger danger!”) — but I am afraid of the boy I have raised to be curious, creative, experimental, and unburdened by gender expectations being hurt, or ridiculed, or called out for being different.  It’s a common fear, I know.  It’s probably also mostly unfounded, as he always has the support of our family and friends, but the fear is there.

My time as his Greatest Influence is coming to an end soon.  His peers, his friends — their opinions are going to start holding a lot more weight very, very soon.  It’s scary.

And it’s relentless.  It just keeps going on from here, where I watch my son move further and further away from me.

Here I am, trying to juggle the time I have left with my Baby while prepping him to be successful as a Big Kid, struggling to keep my own life on track and my creativity afloat.  Trying to cram as much as I can in the brief time I have before I have to re-add work to this mix.

Right now, I have one week left.

I wonder how long I would need for it to ever feel like I had enough.


¹Mr. Lid.  Fucking life-changing.

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