Day One: It's a Jungle Out There

I can hear my two giggling girls bounding and bouncing down the hall to my room.

The sun is out, the birds are chirping and so are the kiddos.I stumble out of bed and smile-while-yawning as little blonde-haired-fire-balls hug my waist and my leg while demanding breakfast. The normalcy of this greeting is simultaneously grating and endearing.

Breakfast is made. More importantly, strong coffee is made.

Breakfast is consumed. More importantly, coffee is consumed.

Then comes the questions that typically begins the anxiety and panic train every single day…

“Mommy, what are we going to do today?”

I could feel it coming on and reminded myself of the pact that I made with Lynn (Gracie’s developmental psychologist); this pact is now my Mommy Mantra.

Grace needs to get out every day and experience new things.

Which means that I need to get out every day and experience new things.

Which also means that I need to get out every day and experience new things while taking care of my 8 year old with autism, my 2 year old with a “sweet energy” (or in common parenting jargon, a typical toddler death wish) and my multiple panic attacks that manifest themselves through a myriad of sights, sounds, smells, stimulus and situations. My panic attacks are, after all, equal opportunity agonies. 

Breath. 

Just Breath.

So what should we do today? 

OK, I’m an anxious person but also extremely tenacious and driven (the irony is not lost on me, I assure you) which means I tend to be the type to “rip the band aid off” (well, not off of my babies of course, but I digress) of unavoidable situations. My passion for this new direction of facing my anxiety and creating opportunities for my girls equates in my mind as  the new norm. It simply is. We will get out every day in one way or another. It is unavoidable.

OK, breathe. 

Keep breathing.

The zoo! Let’s go to the zoo. Rip that band aid off!!! Set that standard! Plus you have two free passes collecting dust in your wallet and Julia can get in for free. Plus you can invite your  loyal friends  and their kids who don’t mind your unique brand of awkward and find you somewhat charming. Plus you’ve been to the zoo with Grace before on a field trip. Plus there will be other Moms there. Other parents. Other like-minded people with their tiny humans. Surely there will be other “helicopter parents” (I hate that term by the way) there hoovering over their offspring, ready, willing and waiting to take on the random bear or lion that escapes and dares to take their child for a snack. Or cover their child if the cave holding the sea otters collapses suddenly. Or push their child out of the way of a rampaging, stampeding crash of rhinos. Or…Or…Or…

This is exactly why I don’t go to the zoo.

Yet somehow I did. We did. For two hours. 

No one was mauled, eaten or trampled.

But wait, I cannot leave the ripped band aid alone, I must also rip the stitches out without any numbing medication administered. 

Because I am an over achiever. 

Because I am stubborn. 

Because, clearly, we are all going to die.

Because, since we are probably going to meet our unfortunate end at the zoo anyway, why not add a little public transportation to the mix. The zoo exhibits will house many a furry, scaly and feathered creature as well as the panicked Stacey who wants nothing more than to curl into a ball and rock back and forth in the corner. Might as well make my agony really count for something right? So hey, let's take the Max Train from Gateway transit center (a questionable part of town)  all the way to the Washington Park Station (a meager 18 stops later). Let us then step out into a giant underground tunnel (that is bound to collapse on top of us all at any moment) and afterwards take the elevator (using rickety as an adjective for this lift and lower device would be too kind) up to the Oregon Zoo parking lot. Let's do all of this there AND back, all while (by some miracle) avoiding abduction, theft and/or being run over by the Max train after mysteriously falling onto the tracks at the worst possible moment.

This was exactly why I don’t take the Max.

Yet somehow I did. We did. And I kept breathing. 

(But not very deep because, you know, the Max)

No one was kidnapped, mugged or flattened by the Max train.

Oh Mercy.

The kids are in bed and dreaming peacefully with the condors and eagles they saw today floating around in their sweet little noggins. I, on the other hand feel like I have geared up for battle, faced the enemy head on and come out somewhat intact. I use the term somewhat very loosely. Chocolate will be consumed this night.  

I’m exhausted, but I made it.

The first adventure of many.