So, I often talk about my OCD. But I don’t really talk about my extreme anxiety.
Okay, so it’s not 24/7 extreme anxiety. But I am no stranger to panic attacks, and I do not do well in crowds. My anxiety washes off of me in waves when I’m in crowds, so much so that I pretty much torture everyone else around me.
I’ve been this way for a long time, but it worsened with parenthood. I can manage myself, but suddenly having to be responsible for other living beings? OH THE TORTURE CANNOT COMPUTE.
So when Jack decided he didn’t want to go to the baseball game on Friday night, which meant that one parent would have to stay home with him and THAT meant that the other parent would be taking Tony to the baseball game by themselves, well..
(I understand how lame this sounds. I know there are these demigod-like creatures out there – single parents, I believe they’re called – and they do this kind of stuff routinely. I know this because every time I’m forced to do anything by myself for any period of time, I look to the heavens and proclaim I DON’T KNOW HOW SINGLE PARENTS DO THIS.)
I was freaking out a little bit.
But – y’all. It was not bad. It was nice, even.
(Okay, not NICE because it was still baseball.)
Tony was AWESOME. He was patient, and social, and he made friends (“What you been doin’ around your house?” he asked some little girl four rows behind us as they both danced to “Calling Baton Rouge”) and he was fun.
I never had to yell or threaten or caution or anything.
We did not have to have a bomb evacuation or worry about which exit would be the most efficient in the event of a fire or a shooting. (EXTREME ANXIETY, I TELL YOU.)
We ate popcorn.
(.. alright, fine. HE ate popcorn.)
And we watched fireworks.
(.. alright, FINE. He watched fireworks. I watched him as he watched the fireworks, enraptured by it.)
And then we danced to our car, which we had trouble finding, but it was okay. It was okay because we were okay. And we were dancing.
And we got to the car and Tony asked if we could do this again sometime. And I looked at his cherubic face, smeared shiny with popcorn oil, and I said, No, but I bet your Uncle Dude will take you. Baseball is not my thing.
(Did you know there are NINE innings in baseball? NINE. Not seven, as I thought. So I got so excited when we did the “Seventh Inning Stretch” and sang that song about crackerjacks. I figured it was the opportunity for everyone to get their car keys together and everything. But NO. TWO MORE FORSAKEN INNINGS.)
Thanks so much to Rocket City Mom for the tickets to see the Huntsville Stars!