At 2:45am this morning I woke from a nightmare about the movie Se7en. If you never saw it, then protect your psyche and DON’T. I can’t tell you exactly what was going on in my dream other than the gluttony scene, likely because I’m three days into some major lifestyle changes (again). I’m starting to feel like that big dude who was forced to eat himself to death. I digress.

The difference between me and someone who doesn’t suffer from anxiety is that I woke up and logically thought that because I was having this nightmare it meant someone was in the house. Probably Kevin Spacey. With a box.

From 2:45am until 4:30am, between stolen glances into the hallway to look for a killer, and playing games of Candy Crush, I tried to tell myself that I was being ridiculous. It’s the same thing I tell myself whenever I get in my car, or drop my daughter off at school, or many other normal tasks where I perceive danger.

Maybe it will benefit me someday; like if someone tries to attack us in church. I may be the only one with a plan to use the candleholders next to the altar as weapons. Fair warning, attackers.

Do you count how many rows you need to climb over to get to the airplane exit in case your pilot lands on the Hudson River? I do. Note, I said “climb over” because everyone else will be messing around in the aisle. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

Maybe our fire escape plan will actually work because I’ve gone over it time and time again in my head. I know exactly how I’m going to throw my children to my husband and then jump into a bush. Of course, my daughter is almost 15 and I’m pretty sure I can’t throw her on an average day, but in a fire? That girl is getting tossed.

Now that I think about it, my anxiety has me uber prepared to handle all kinds of situations.

So bring it, Kevin Spacey. I’ll be the one wide-awake.

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One of the greatest things about my son’s PDD-NOS is that he doesn’t care what anyone thinks, of course this is also one of the worst things, but I’m choosing to stay positive.

Right now he is sprawled out on the floor singing songs from The Prince of Egypt. “Deliver us out of bondage and deliver us to the promised laaaaaaaand…” There is something to be said for being so shameless. Not that he needs to be – his voice is quite good – much better than his mother’s, anyway.

Though I’m not jealous of his struggles, I’m jealous of the freedom he is afforded. He does things I’m not brave enough to attempt. The other night at his cousin’s wedding, while I hid from the videographer, my son was dancing like there was no one watching. Of course, everyone was.

this was taken at another cousin’s wedding. the kid gets around.

It’s great to see him oblivious to the criticism of others and doing what feels natural. If he wants to sing, he sings. If he wants to dance, he dances. I’ve always said that I’d love to skip for exercise, but the idea of people turning their heads in disbelief holds me back. As does social media. I’d need a little of his carefree nature to actually skip down the street. A LOT of his carefree nature, actually. And maybe some liquor.

My son is not confined by the word “normal.” This child, crooning about slavery on my dining room floor, is not actually bound at all.

It kind of makes me want to sing.

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I hate myself.

Wait, let me clarify that. I hate things about myself. Mostly the large things, like my thighs and my waistline.

I hate that stores don’t stock shoes in size 11, how I can’t find a decent sports bra, or that shopping for eyeglasses involves me telling the sales clerk that she needs to show me the frames for pumpkin-headed people.

I hate not being able to cross my legs under a table, having no room in airplanes, or that the seat in my car doesn’t go back far enough for my liking. Also, long-sleeved shirts that look more like 3/4 length.

And, for crying out loud, my earlobes.

Of course this is just the way I was made and I wouldn’t be me without resembling a giant – I’d certainly have a lot less fodder for this blog, that’s for sure. Just once, though, I’d like to wear heels without towering over everyone.

Sure there are benefits; like being able to reach the tall shelf without a stool and never having to worry about someone blocking your view. That’s about it. Being a big girl ain’t easy.

Palming a basketball, however? Piece of cake.

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We went to a wedding yesterday for our nephew Mike and his lovely bride, Lisa. This picture was shamelessly stolen from my sister-in-law. Thanks, Laura! Though next time, let’s make sure we watch for background light diffusion and foreground shadows. I know these technical things because I often take pictures of my dog with my phone. That pretty much makes me an expert.

Mike was just a kid when his uncle and I started dating; back then, we still called him Michael. It was before middle school and braces and long before he joined the Marines and served in Afghanistan. I never anticipated that I’d be giving that kid unsolicited marital advice, but while he was busy growing up, I was busy getting relationship experience under my belt. It’s kind of my duty to tell him. It’s like I’m the Godfather. Except I’m a woman. And, not in the mafia. Here goes:

Dear Mike,

First, let me say that your brother gave an excellent speech last night: “People always say, ‘Don’t go to bed mad,’ but when the kids are crying and you’re tired, and fighting with your spouse, sometimes you just need to go to bed and things will be better in the morning.” I concur. Wholeheartedly. Just sleep.

There will be times when you are so angry – and sometimes it’s not even anger but just sheer monotony – and you think there’s NO WAY things can get better. You’ll think you can’t possibly spend another day with this person, let alone the rest of your life.

But, when you get through it you won’t believe how much stronger your relationship is. You will love your wife like never before and you won’t understand how you could have ever thought otherwise. Except for maybe when she tracks mud in across your just mopped floor. Or leaves the seat up in the middle of the night. But, let’s hope she won’t do that.

I know you realize this commitment is forever, so don’t ever say anything to her that you wouldn’t want said to you. Or, if she’s like me and holds a grudge for years, don’t say anything that she can throw in your face a decade from now. Women have good memories and we can use them for evil.

Kiss her every day. Tell her you love her. Rub her shoulders. Hold hands. Split the chores – and occasionally do hers as a surprise. That last bit of advice is really for your uncle. Hi honey! But, really. Housework is hot.

Oh, and one last thing; this marriage stuff is hard and you WILL screw it up. You both will. It is also the most beautiful, rewarding, comforting, secure partnership you will ever have, as long as you remember that you’re in this together. Forever.

You got this.

Love,

Aunt Diane

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