Fear

I think we can all say we had unfounded fears as children. I had a couple of unique fears. Like fear of killer bees, O.J. Simpson (although, to be honest, this is a rational fear), the world coming to an end because the paintings of popes ran out of wall space (it was a 20/20 special and that's all my 7-year-old brain got from it ... whoa, tangent. Just understood why the show was called 20/20. As in perfect vision. Good name.), fear of the skeleton lady who sat behind my pillow at night, fear of the vent monster (courtesy X-files). Thinking about it, most of my fears came from TV. Although I'm sure my creative brain would have filled the fear-void with something had I not watched it.

Sometimes, my parents would capitalize on my somewhat paranoid state. Once, I went to the bathroom and when I came out, my whole family had disappeared and the house was pitch black. Instead of looking for them, I immediately ran to my neighbor's house sobbing that my family was gone. Turns out they thought it would be funny to hide from me. But I got the last laugh when I disappeared (to the neighbor's house) and they couldn't figure out where I was.

Now that I'm an adult (can I really say that?) I have different fears.

Fear of a hidden camera in my bathroom.
Fear of all crane flies I've killed coming back to life to attack me.
Fear of being mistaken as Miley Cyrus.
Usual fears.

A fear that I don't have is public speaking. Jerry Seinfeld once said "More people fear public speaking than death. Basically, they'd rather be in the coffin than speak at a funeral." Not me.

I also don't fear being incredibly awkward and making a fool out of myself, mostly for humor's sake. When I was serving a mission in Georgia I went to a transfer meeting intentionally looking ridiculous. Because I knew there was at least one person who would find in hilarious, and I didn't care what everyone else thought. Believe me, a lot of those missionaries later told me it was the first time they saw me and they thought for sure I was one joke away from being sent to the funny bin.

But then there are my deep fears. Fear of never marrying. Fear of failure. Fear of dying alone. Fear of not being remembered. Fear of never making something of myself. Which I'm sure most of us have.

Unfortunately, my fears keep me from my potential. Like writing. I know I'm supposed to write, because I believe I do it well; but then I sit down and fear envelopes me like London fog during a Victorian-themed horror movie. Or designing. My hands start to shake and my head starts to hurt and before I know it I'm rocking myself in bed pretending I'm a hermit crab.

Perhaps it's more anxiety than fear. Whatever it is, it's holding me back and I want it banished. And I realize I'm the only one who can truly fight my own demons.

What I really wanted to get to in this post is that I'm in a transitional point in my life and am facing two doors: mediocrity or potential. The mediocrity door is neutral in color, has a familiar door knob, even has a "welcome" mat printed in Times New Roman. Behind it lies a secure job and a regimented daily routine; but not a lot of fulfilling happiness. I do want to make something clear, I am in no way diminishing the choices other's make. My mediocrity may be someone else's potential, and vice versa. Like they say, one man's junk is another man's treasure.

But the potential door is abstract painted and doesn't even look like a door. More like a black hole with streamers and beads dangling from the top while being sucked into the vortex of unknown. There's no welcome mat. In fact, there's a giant canyon you have to leap over before even getting to the door. Behind it lies the possibility for adventure and growth, but also the possibility for bigger failures. It's an uncertain future financially.

Sitting here writing, I'm reminded of the show Dr. Who. If the doctor showed up at your house and asked if you wanted to travel with him though all of time and space, but with the possibility of death, danger, and disaster at every pit spot -- would you go with him? I think we all would like to say "Hell yes I would!" But has our life reflected this sentiment?

I'm letting you know I've started walking towards the black hole door. I'm shaking in my boots, and it may be some time before I even attempt to jump across that canyon, but I can no longer let fear stop me from living the life I'm most meant to live.

I'm With Child/s!

Many of my friends have kids, have a singular kid, have just been through labor to have a kid, or ripening with pregnant bellies.

Alas, I cannot fit any of those descriptions at this time. Okay, sometimes it does appear that I'm ripening to moldy fruit stage when I'm unmotivated to shower, but that's about it.

No, I'm not complaining. Sure, sometimes I feel like my eggs can be categorized under "fine wine," but it's not like I'm going to rob a sperm bank.

Let's just pretend I didn't type that last thought.

I'm the oldest of 6 kids, so I always felt like I was the second mother. Heck, I was babysitting by the age of 5. Oh, I know that probably shocks some of you, because apparently most people think it's highly illegal if not outright bad-parent-of-the-year worthy.

But you have to understand. Anytime my mom or dad would leave the room with both my sister and I in it, I would consider it babysitting. Had I been able to get my hands on a taxi meter, I probably would have started charging my parents, but there is that obnoxiously great quality of saintliness that I do tend to possess -- so I chalked it up to charity work.

I did a lot of charity work as a child.

But I digress. I wanted to dedicate a post to the things in my life that I treat as my babies, so I can feel included in the mommy and daddy club (obviously I haven't reached Platinum Umbilical Cord Member status).

Baby #1 -- My Nails (totes sounds like a card from Apples to Apples, doesn't it?)
Lately I've given birth to an obsession with finger nail polish, specifically on my fingers. I decided clothes can shrink or you can become too fat for them, but finger nail polish lasts forever. Like diamonds. So technically, diamond finger nail polish would last forever ever, but not in the Taylor Swift ever ever sort of way.

I've purchased lots of new colors to feed my growing habit. It's progression is incredible. The great thing about it is when it's really annoying me, I just take a cotton swab of acetone to it. I don't recommend taking a cotton swab of acetone to real babies. Cotton swabs of breast milk are adequate.

Baby #2 -- Reading Books
People say there is something special about cradling a new baby. Babies even have this "baby smell;" somewhat like a new car smell, although I have yet to see a tree shaped air freshener featuring the new baby scent. Well, holding a book close to your bosom can also be special. And books also have their own great smell, unless they're e-readers, then it just smells like China.

What I'm trying to say is -- there's that moment when you look down on a page of text, getting lost in a world of magic and mystery; and you know, without the cooing noises, that this book loves you back. Until it becomes 5 weeks overdue, and then you want to treat it like a redheaded step child. Which I slightly take offense to.

Side note: just finished reading Brandon Sanderson's The Way of Kings. Uber long, but uber amazing.

Baby #3 -- Television Shows on Netflix
Let's be honest, the movie selection on Netflix leaves something to be desired. But what Netflix is great at is having this insane collection of television shows. So many different choices to get addicted to, so little time. It's exactly like these high tech baby monitors where you can watch your baby as he slumbers. Except for these shows are way more exciting and plot driven than the monotonous in and out breathes that a baby takes during sleepy sleepy time. Oh, excuse me. I forgot to mention the occasional drool.

I spend just as much time, if not more, watching shows on Netflix than a parent does watching their baby on a monitor. Whose a better parent now?

Additional side note: just finished Sherlock on Netflix. Big fan.

Baby #4 -- My Bed (another great Apples to Apples card)
Go on any parenting website and you'll find hundreds of forums and advice/debate about getting babies to sleep. You would think that babies never sleep the way everyone goes on and on. But my bed, my Baby #4, it does just the opposite. It puts me to sleep. And I slumber so nicely. What new parents and I do have in common is that horrible separation anxiety thing. Seriously, each time I have to leave my bed, I just want to throw a fit.

You know, writing this makes me feel so much better about life. I may not have my own bundles of joy, but I  have four of my own unique beautiful babies that I get to enjoy. I'm even considering throwing myself a shower and registering at Amazon. Maybe you'll be lucky enough to get an invite.

The Milk Story

I figured now is as good as time as any to tell you the milk story. Some of you have heard it, some of you haven't, but only I lived it.

I've had sleeping...issues... for awhile. Although they have gotten somewhat worse in my older age. But this sleep story takes place when I was a junior in high school.

I am the oldest of six children, so our house was/is pretty high on the decibel/activity chart. One day, my whole family was gone except me, so I decided to take a nap in the quiet solitude.

During the deep blissful state of REM, someone at the door was constantly ringing the doorbell. Being in a drunken like stupor, I answered the door to find a salesman. He was selling milk that would be delivered to your porch once a week (kind of like the old days, except the milk came in plastic not glass).

He asked if I was the lady in charge of the house. I told him I was (my logical thinking was that no one was home, therefore for the time being I was the lady in charge of the house). He then asked how many were in the family so he could calculate how much milk we needed. I told him there were 6 kids and two adults (which was true). He then looked at me amazed, put out his hand and said "may I shake the hand of the woman who looks so good for having six kids."

I shook his hand. I didn't correct him.

Before I knew it, I was signing up for 3 gallons of milk every 3 days. I even signed my mom's signature. It all happened so fast. He was a smooth salesman that had interrupted my nap. That's a bad combination.

When my parents returned home I told them about the incident, accidentally forgetting the part where I had signed my mom's name. They laughed and said I was crazy, especially because there is no way we drink that much milk that fast.

We forgot about the whole thing until the next Tuesday. At like 4:30 that morning my parents heard this thump at the door. They looked out the window and saw this random truck by our driveway. My dad, being the protector that he is, ran down the stairs, out the door, only to almost kill himself by tripping on 3 gallons of milk.

Then they saw the bill attached to the home delivered 3 gallons of milk. My parents weren't laughing anymore.

Six gallons of milk and many a phone battle later, my mom finally got it all taken care of.

Moral of the story: it's all fun and games to wake me up during the middle of a nap, just don't expect any sort of logical outcomes.

It Can Kill You

My mom, Audrey and I were talking about carbon monoxide. Audrey asked what exactly it was, and we said it was an odorless, tasteless gas that had the potential to kill you. Audrey asked if you died a horrible death and we said no, it usually made people really sleepy and they would drift away into death (this is from what I remembered from watching that 911 Emergency show, did you ever watch it?). I then said "yep, I'm pretty sure I've been breathing in large quantities my whole life; hence why I'm so sleepy all the time."

You know, now that I type it, it's not nearly as funny. But I felt compelled to tell you. Speaking of that 911 Emergency show, II watched an episode as a kid of this boy who got his jacket stuck in the escalator and was almost crushed to death by the menacing steps of death. I hate escalators to this day. I was a very impressionable child. Due to TV, I also have an unhealthy fear of vents, killer bees and good looking men.