Have you ever had your heart ripped out of your chest, thrown to the floor, then watched as it was stomped on, then a dog comes by and pees on it and another dog comes by and chews it up like rawhide?

That’s what it feels like when you have your first crush and that crush isn’t exactly crushing on you. Not that I would know.

Okay, I know exactly. I liked the same boy from the third grade all the way through junior high. Yes, I know it was a long time to be stuck on the same boy and yes, I know that saying “junior high” makes me sound ancient. That’s because I am.

Let’s be honest. I was not Blair from The Facts of Life. I wore glasses and had short hair, which was permed so I could look just like Annie. You should have heard me during my piano practice when I would belt out show-tunes. I know that all of this makes me sound homely. That’s because I was.

Let me give you some words of wisdom; just because you know all the words to Tomorrow, doesn’t mean the sun will come out. I will never forget lying on my bed, burying my face in my pillow and crying huge tears. The 10 year old boy I liked didn’t like me back! Oh, the pain of it all. The horror! Boys are stupid!

You think the throbbing in your chest means your lungs will close and your heart will cease its beating and no one seems to understand. Your mom wants you to set the dinner table when the world is getting ready to stop. How can she expect you to eat when your throat is closing up?

But, as any good mother would, my mom had a secret weapon. She could always stop my tears by pulling out the big guns. Mini-cheesecake.

Lately I’ve been hoping I don’t have to make mini-cheesecake anytime soon. My 11 year old daughter is at just about the same age I was when the hurt started really hurting. I know that crush isn’t too far away.

Lucky for her, she doesn’t look a thing like Annie.

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My eyes are burning. My cheeks stained with tears of exhaustion. I can’t remember the last time I got a good night’s sleep. I have to wait for our new insurance to kick in before I can talk to my doctor about my insomnia. Again.

My legs are cramped from standing on a hard floor for the past five hours, my hands are dry and cracked. My heart, heavy. I worry about my kids, my husband, our health, our finances, my parents.

Looking around the house makes me anxious. There are dishes, laundry, dog hair. Piles of papers, kids’ projects, things needing my signature or my response, volunteer work, writing assignments, insurance nightmares. I feel buried.

I need to work on math with my son. I need to take my daughter to practice. I need to find babysitters for upcoming events. I need to buy birthday presents, a sweater for my daughter’s choir performance and I need to send in her camp forms. I have to find a new therapist for my son. I need to change the sheets.

I want to set up piano lessons and swim lessons. I want to take the kids out to play catch. I have to call the pediatrician’s office. Maybe I can get to that after I start making dinner.

I need a minute. I collapse on the couch and let out a sigh. My head flops back against the olive-green chenille. I close my eyes and rub my forehead. I have had a headache for three days.

I rest my hand on my thigh and feel my young son’s fingers grab mine. He reaches up and brushes my hair from my cheeks. He tells me I am “so, so, so, so pretty”.

I muster half a smile and say, “I love you, buddy.”

He says, “I love you too.”

Then he hugs me.

And just like that, the dread is gone.

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I have mentioned before that my 75 year old mother has a tendency to make slight errors in her pronunciation of certain words.

Usually her terminology is good for a chuckle, but last night at dinner she had me completely stumped when she asked, “Diane, have you seen that HBO movie I told you about yet? The one about that acoustic girl.”

I stared blankly. She continued, “Temple something…”

“Temple Grandin?”

She replied, “Yes! That’s it.”

“Mom, I think you meant to say autistic.”

Though I suppose it’s entirely possible that Temple played a mean guitar.

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On Wednesday night my husband and I picked up our 11 year old daughter from track practice.

She excitedly jumped into the back seat, began to buckle herself and without a hint of a greeting blurted out, “Guess what?”

I turned to look at her with her red face and hair falling from her ponytail, “What?” I asked.

“I ran in a 400 meter race against three boys from my class and I came in second. The winner only beat me by two seconds!”

“Wow, honey! That’s great!”

“Yeah. I ran pretty hard and I sprinted really fast at the end…and when it was over I threw up a little bit.”

I don’t know if I have ever been more proud.

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