Anxiety and Hair Bling

My daughter just got a feather and some tinsely bling in her hair. Most of the little girls in her class were sporting some hair bling, and my daughter's received short shift of mommy time lately while I frantically cleared my mother's apartment. Last weekend, my husband went out to play cards, and the Kid and I had girls' night. We went to the mall, she got her hair bling, we looked in the stores, debated which boy in One Direction is cutest. (I've given up pointing out that for me to even have a preference is kind of creepy since I'm old enough to be a mother (or in some parts of the nation, a grandmother) to any of them) We had ice cream. And I thought we had a great evening of girl things.

Until the anxiety started. My daughter has severe anxiety and it touches every aspect of her life. Combined with OCD, if things aren't exactly so in her world, things don't go well. As I was tucking her in to bed a couple of hours after getting the hair bling, the worry line on her forehead appeared.

"Mommy, what if I get the feather wet?"

"Then we'll dry it."

"What if the bling falls out?"

"I watched the lady put them in. I'll just put the bling back in and if it's the feather, keep it and we'll go and get them to put it back in."

"The lady said we had to be careful in the swimming pool or the colour will come out of the feather? What if it gets wet? Will it happen right away?"

"No honey, it won't happen right away. We'll just put your swim cap on, and then rinse it out really quickly after swimming."

"But what if..But what if... The questions went on for another 10 minutes, all variations on the same theme. What if the cat tried to get the feather? What if the bling fell out and she didn't notice it? What if only half the feather fell out...I finally calmed her down by thinking up silly ways the feather could fall out-what if a moose snuck in the door and gave her a moose kiss and slimed her feather? What if daddy wanted to steal her feather? She went off to sleep thinking up outrageous ways to lose the feather and what we would do.

A couple of days later, one of the tinsel did fall out, and I replaced it in her hair in under 2 minutes. Her anxiety is less now, especially since the pink feather survived swimming lessons unscathed and unfaded.

What started out as an innocent girly girl thing turned into an anxiety producing event. It's easy to minimize the fears until you realize that in the Kid's mind, they aren't minimal at all. If she gets this worked up over a couple of strands of tinsel and a feather, what about the big stuff like what high school to go to, what career to choose or who to date? It made me regret the hair bling, which then made me angry at this mental challenge my innocent little daughter will deal with the rest of her life. I'll have to adapt, and then teach her how to deal with it. Humour and hugs will help. And maybe some backup hair bling...

Finding my Brave at the CNE

I love the CNE. I love the sights, the sounds, the Belgian strawberry waffle with ice cream and strawberries-I love to people watch, to snoop in the buildings, watch silly people scare themselves witless on rides while I sit and watch. I love the CNE.

When I lived in Toronto, I would take myself down to the fair in town every year. I hopped the King streetcar and got off at the Dufferin Gate. I'd spend the day wandering the fairgrounds and I would visit the Arts and Crafts building and the international pavilion, indulge in my strawberry waffle, visit the Hershey booth, the Billy Bee Honey booth and the Tetley tea booth, get my tarot cards read by a grizzled old gypsy in the horse building, pet a couple of velvety horse noses and head for home happy and broke. When I started dating my husband, I introduced him to my CNE ritual, and we've extended it to our daughter.

The first year we took the Kid to the CNE, she was around 18 months old. We stayed until the lights came on on the midway and she was hooked. Her head swivelled so fast from left to right I was afraid of whiplash. "Oh, pretty. oh pretty..." was all she kept saying. When she was little, rides were easy. Now that she's older, fearless and taller, going to the CNE or any midway requires the negotiation skills of a UN envoy. She loves rides. I don't.

I was the person who held the bags and purses at Canada's Wonderland while everyone else hit the roller coasters. I was the person who stayed in the lobby of the Empire State Building when everyone else rode to to the top. I used to be able to do any ride that spins, as long as it stays relatively on the ground. I don't do roller coasters, I don't do heights, and I don't do 3-D or IMAX.  After a couple of sessions of whiplash, I can no longer do spinny rides too well. My husband doesn't do spin, but doesn't mind heights or roller coasters. We have a kid who loves rides. Trade offs and negotiating are now a huge part of our day and I have been known to exercise the Mom Veto on rides that will take 20 years off my life if my kid goes on them. Drop Zone at Marineland received the "over my dead, bleeding body" Mom Veto.

Imagine my Kid's surprise and delight, then, when I agreed to take her on the Polar Express. I used to LOVE the Polar Express, or Music Express or any other variation of the ride where you sit and go backwards in a hilly circle while they play music that muffles the screams. "Do you want to go faster?" "YES" "Do you want to go FASTER?" "YES"... I agreed to take my kid on the ride. "Really, mommy? REALLY We can go on the ride? REALLY? Let's GO!"

A car accident in 2002 resulted in a misdiagnosed cracked hip and lower leg. I walked on it for months before a bone scan revealed the then-healed cracks. It's left me with osteo-arthritis in my hip that causes some mobility challenges. I'm also significantly heavier than previous years. But my kid was already running up the ramp to find a seat in a ride I wasn't sure how I was going to get into. Onward.

The ride started and I tried my best not to squish my kid as centrifuge tried to send me to the other side of the cart. We both laughed our heads off on the ride and it was just as I remembered. I felt a bit queasy, but it was manageable. The music really hadn't changed much in 30 years. It was pulsing and loud and mercifully, over quickly.

When the ride stopped, I was leaning backwards low to the ground and my knees were higher than my head. And I was stuck. I couldn't slide forward enough to use my good leg to stand up. I couldn't swivel around to use both legs to stand, and I couldn't stand from the angle I was sitting in because of my gimpy hip and my weight. I was stuck. I tried various combinations to disembark before flagging down one of the buff young carnies, swallowing my pride and asking for help. He grabbed my outstretched hand, heaved me out and I waddled off the ride, my dignity cowering behind me, tail between her legs.

I vetoed a second trip on the ride, but the Kid was still happy. Mommy had kept her promise and took her on the Polar Express. I soothed my dignity with a deluxe strawberry waffle with chocolate, ice cream AND whipped cream. And we all went home happy and broke.

Cross Post from the Sandwich Chronicles

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