I saw a teaser on line last night that got my attention, something about the surviving Boston Marathon bomber's EKG not registering so much as a minor blip when he was informed he might be subject to the death penalty. Naturally, I read the article, fascinated by the implication that this guy actually didn't have a heart, and was immediately crushed. The article pretty much told me how irrelevant an EKG would be in measuring an emotional reaction to such a statement, particularly when the guy is drugged up the wazoo. And particularly when the death penalty is thrown in at the end of the litany of possible penalties the way death is always tossed in as a possible side effect of even the most benign narcotic, right there after permanent maiming. Even the most emotional among us barely pay attention to that crap.
My EKG's, as far as I know, have always been quite normal, despite the fact that I tend to be a chronic worrier. I think I usually hide it pretty well, not just from the men in the white coats but from the mere mortals around me. It's important to keep that stuff under wraps; you don't want to make folks uncomfortable, particularly if they're your children. In fact, when they're your children, if you're a complete psycho the way I am, you are occasionally at risk of having an "episode" where you worry yourself into a complete frenzy about making sure everything is absolutely perfect for them and, at the same time, not letting them know you're on the verge of a complete mental break down. Note to self: don't try that again.
The key to not letting them see you sweat is to not try too hard. Worry all you want, but if you run yourself ragged thinking you have some control over how things turn out, you're headed for disaster. For example, your body can suddenly realize at an inopportune time -- say, when you're out to dinner with your three kids, a visiting French student, and your ex-husband, celebrating your daughter's birthday and your son's homecoming after a year -- that it's been running on pure adrenaline all day and needs to shut down and you end up spending the next half hour semi-conscious on the ladies room floor while your daughters take turns offering you water and blockading the door and your son and your ex and the French student sit at the table staring awkwardly at each other.
It was, to say the least, an inauspicious beginning to my week of having a rare house full of offspring, but I adjusted. It took a day or two, but I stopped panicking and started to relax a bit, enjoying the laptops and clothing and plates that seemed to be strewn everywhere, even relishing the constant sound and sensation of oreo crumbs crunching beneath my feet. There are piles of unfolded laundry everywhere, urgent requests for food and coffee and toilet paper throughout the day, an occasional suggestion that I drop whatever really important thing I happen to be doing so we can go somewhere together. A blind dog and one teenager can't even begin to match this kind of chaos. They both reacted as I did at first, with a bit of trepidation, maybe some confusion about how to behave. But, as the week draws to a close, tails are wagging and we're all smiling. It's been a beautiful mess.
I still slip into panic mode occasionally, striving for perfection when I know it will only lead to disaster. Which is why the home made Snickers brownies I had promised to bring to a mother daughter dinner last night where I really wanted to make a good impression ended up being made from a mix and not including any Snickers and being under baked and poorly cut and looking a bit like beef jerky. I assured them all I had other talents. They looked skeptical. At least I didn't pass out.
On my way to Starbucks this morning, I spotted the sneaky cop hiding in the school parking lot. My gas gauge is on "E," and I was afraid, for a moment, I'd see the heart sinking light show blinding me in my rear view mirror. But I remained calm, kept my hands at ten and two, and, as far as I can tell, the guy has no idea I was running on empty.
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