The day I thought he might be “The One”, a.k.a., that one time I had a panic attack in the middle of Costco.

A few years ago, I came across an Engagement Announcement and Wedding Invitation that a family member of mine had gotten in the mail.   It had a nice, glossy picture of the happy couple:  he carrying her in his arms as though he were about to carry her over the threshold (as the tradition goes), and she with her arms wrapped around his neck, her feet playfully kicking the air.  Their smiles were bright.  “Celebrate with us!”  I looked briefly at the invitation and then tossed it aside with the rest of the mail and rolled my eyes.  “Idiots”.

At the time, I really held that opinion.  I really clung to the self-righteous truth that no young, naive couple had any clue what they were getting themselves into.  That if they were smart, they wouldn’t rush into marriage at 24, or at the very least, do it quietly so we don’t all have to watch the two of them walk blindly into an inevitable hurricane and expect us to clap and oooh and aaah and smile along with them.  At the time, I obviously had forgotten that my husband and I were also two young idiots not so long ago and that I myself had had a moment of “He’s The One!!” as my heart did flip flops.

I was 19 and had a dentist appointment to have a cavity filled.  Jon and I had already been together for about a year.  Still new enough that we were gooey about each other, but together long enough that I felt comfortable with him accompanying me to the dentist.   He said he wanted to go to Costco anyway to look at some new golf clubs, and since Costco was right next to my dentist, he’d come along.  So we hopped in his green truck and happily drove to Winooski, smiling and chattering along the way.

The problem was, that by the age of 19, I had somehow developed a very strong phobia to needles.  I’m not sure when that happened, but I do remember sitting on my mother’s lap at the age of 4 or 5, watching a nurse give me a shot in the thigh and becoming hysterical.  So much so, that apparently some pregnant nurse had been napping in another office and was jarred awake by my screams and came around the corner all groggy and waddling.  Henceforth, 15 years later, I apparently still had that phobia, but didn’t quite know the extent of it until this fateful day.

Once at the dentist’s office, I was called in and I immediately told them that I was feeling a bit nervous about the Novocaine needle and he suggested I have some Nitrous Oxide, which I happily took.  Sitting in the dentist’s chair, he placed the mask over my face and I started to breathe in.  Jon stood just above me, next to the chair teasing me and telling me to “take a deep breath and suck that stuff down!!”.  I started laughing, unsure if it was the laughing gas, or the fact that he always made me laugh no matter what we were doing.  Being the anxiety-ridden person I am, humor really is the only way to my heart.

After I was sufficiently sedated, Jon left, the dentist came in and he proceeded to give me a few shots of Novocaine with his absurdly giant needle, and then fill in my cavity.  (By the way, I have always brushed my teeth regularly.  I have what the dentist called “deep grooves” so no matter how well I brush, I’m prone to getting cavities, m’kay!?).  While I didn’t necessarily feel any pain during this whole process, I vividly remember the size of the needle, the feel of pressure in my mouth and one side of my face being numb.  I remember him sticking the needle into my gum and shaking it around and such.  I guess he really wanted to make sure it had gotten in there good.  I was high on laughing gas and one side of my face was completely numb.   I can’t remember if Jon had gotten to the point in our relationship where he told me he loved me (he took a long time to get there), but I couldn’t help but think he must have felt that way to voluntarily see me in such a condition.

After all was said and done, the dentist took off my bib and told me I was “all set”.  I gingerly hopped out of the dentist chair and went and retrieved Jon from the waiting room and on our way we went to Costco so he could look at some golf clubs.  Looking back, it is apparent that I still had some amount of Nitrous Oxide in my system to have been so happily bouncing along with a numb mouth and the recent memory of that hideous needle that had just been shoved into my face.  Maybe I had hoped that the needle phobia had somehow disappeared?

But it was at this point that things went terribly wrong.

Walking into Costco, I followed Jon who began weaving in and out of all of the aisles, dodging people with their big carts, looking up and down the shelves trying to find the sporting goods section.  By the time we had gotten half-way down the store, I began to feel very weird.  His figure began to swing and sway ahead of me.  I got clammy all of a sudden.  There was a fuzzy buzzing in my head and my heart started to race.  I tried to mentally talk myself out of this weirdness.  I tried to trick myself into believing that I was “fine” and to just ignore the fact that I felt like I was under water, but to no avail.   And that is when I tried to take a deep breath.  I tried to breathe in to calm myself, and suddenly felt like my breathing tube had almost completely closed.  It felt like all that was left was a tiny, itty-bitty opening allowing only an itty-bitty amount of air to get in.  No matter how big of a breathe I tried to take in, hardly any would get in at all…..and that’s when I started to freak.


Jon had found some golf clubs, had received one out of the bag and was taking practice swings in the aisle when his hysterical 19-year-old girlfriend with a numb face began yelling, “I CAN’T BREATHE!!  I CAN’T BREATHE”!!!

I remember finding a partially exposed pallet and sitting myself down in case I fainted.  I remember Jon slowly putting the golf club back in the bag from which he gotten it and walking over to me.  I also remember a small group of Costco patrons forming around me, slowing down to stare at me, their purses dangling from their arms as they held on to their enormous carts.  One lady had a strong, Long Island accent.  She had short dark hair, was slightly chubby, maybe 50ish.  She and a few others were pausing, looking at each other, their hands to their mouths as I said again, “I CAN’T BREATHE” and wheezed and hyperventilated.

“Oh my gawd……she can’t breathe…..I’ll cawl an ambulance”.  The Long Island Lady started to push her cart toward Help, and that is when Jon came back into view.

“No, no don’t do that”.  He squatted down in front of me and put up his arm slowly at her, “No, I think she just needs to calm down a little “.  I remember him being so calm.  He didn’t seem fazed at all.  And he didn’t say I needed to calm down in a patronizing way either.  He wasn’t angry or annoyed.  He wasn’t rolling his eyes and making me feel anymore ridiculous than I already did.  He also didn’t get wrapped up in my hysterics, as Long Island Woman had so quickly done.  I remember him looking at me directly in the eyes and saying “let’s get you outside for some air and I’ll get the truck”.  Among all the swimming people and shelves and big Costco lights, it was his face that was very still in front of me.

As he put his arm around me and escorted me out of Costco, we made our way to the front of the store where I sad down again in the fresh air and waited for him to get the truck.  I don’t think I was hyperventilating at that point, but Long Island Lady and her purse had followed us out and stood near me while Jon got the truck and pulled up in front of us.  It was very nice of her to have followed us.   I remember him thanking her and getting me loaded up.  He reclined my seat, rolled down my window and drove us back home.

After I had calmed down considerably, I opened my eyes to take in the scenery.  I was lying on my left-side, facing Jon, the passenger seat reclined all the way back.  It was summer and the window was down and I could hear the air blowing through the window.  I could also hear the country music station that he always had on.  And I could see him, driving along, calm as a cucumber, occasionally looking down at me.

“How we doin?” he asked me at one point.  I think I nodded and apologized.  But what I remember most about that moment was thinking how he’d handled everything.  How he’d handled me.  He wasn’t angry.  He wasn’t joining in my hysterics.  He didn’t even get to buy any golf clubs for himself.   That was the very first time I thought to myself:   “I think this guy’s the one” and feeling happy and lucky and excited about it.

In just a couple of months, we will celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary and I keep thinking about this day.  And I keep thinking about myself a few years ago, rolling my eyes at the engaged couple.  How much my opinion has changed since then.  What I’ve learned.

I’ve learned how crucial that “We’re so in love” phase actually is.  Maybe even essential to a marriage.  That after 10 years of marriage, after kids, and bills and stress and the ups and downs of life, a couple can grow apart quite easily if they aren’t careful.  That things get hard and scary.  We’ve had a jam-packed 10 years of marriage full of good times, hard times, sleep-deprived times.  There were times where we said things we didn’t mean, did things we didn’t mean, times that were peaceful and happy, times where we were both hurt and not sure we’d make it, and other times that were downright ugly.

I’ve learned that it’s in those hard times where you look back to when you were young and in love.  I’ve learned that it’s that idiotic phase that might just keep you afloat.  If you could just dip your finger back into that for a bit and remember the taste of who you both were and how you both were together.  Those two lovebirds existed once and are more than likely still in there somewhere beneath the mortgage payments and the “I do more around here than you do” and the stress of raising kids together and holding down jobs.

I’ve learned that it’s actually those early days that can help get you back on track.  Remembering them and appreciating them and tapping into those two people when you can.  I think that’s the key really.

Or maybe not. …… Maybe the key is just to have more panic attacks in Costco?


40: The tween years of adulthood, minus the braces.

Sometimes, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror while cleaning the toilets, I catch a glimpse of someone who looks slightly startled at her reflection.  There are more grey hairs than I thought, there are faint little crow’s feet that I can see if I lean in real close.  I look tired most of the time.  I can remember bouncing out of bed at 6:00 and going for runs by 6:30 when I was single and in my twenties.  Now, when I get up in the morning, it takes me at least an hour and 2 cups of coffee to limber up.  I’m asleep by 9:00 at the latest.  Ask my friends.

I will be turning 41 in just a couple of months although, I’m not quite as upset as I was about turning 40.   Truth be told, I think I had been having a hard time with 40 for the past few years.  I may or may not have had an early mid-life crisis now that I look back.  I headed toward 40 digging in my heels, kicking and screaming Father Time dragging me by the wrists.  I tired to evade it at every turn.  I didn’t want to be “old”, but wanted to stay “young”.   I remember my own mother turning 36 and thinking she was old.  I remember she married for the second time at 40.  I was there.  I was in college.

A hundred and fifty years ago, 40 was ancient.  You were absolutely a grandmother by the age of 40, if you weren’t already dead.  You were over the hill.  You were worn out and washed up.

These days, 40 is so much different.  Life isn’t over at 40 like it was back then, but we’re not exactly Spring Chickens either.   We’re told “40 is the new 20”.  Is it really people?  Is that why I’m at the gym 4 times a week doing a thousand crunches?  Because I have absolutely no recollection of doing that in my 20’s.   If “40 is the new 20”, then how come when I have more than two or three glasses of wine in one sitting I feel like I have Swine Flu all the next day?  Because trust me, in my 20’s I imbibed way more than that and still made it to classes on time.

My 20’s were all about getting through school and making as many bad decisions as I could, as often as I could.    Check.

My 30’s were all about marriage, babies,completely losing my sense of Self and making all of the best decisions of my life.    Check.

But 40?  What the hell am I supposed to be doing at 40?  I am too old to go to the clubs anymore.  The college students would say “who is that old lady out there?   Why does she only come on 80’s night?   Why does she keep requesting Gloria Estefan?.  I’m also not having anymore babies, so that’s out.  My two boys are old enough now that I’m becoming less of an urgent or constant need for them, which feels good and lonesome at the same time.  Mostly good.

I feel a bit lost I suppose.  At almost-41-years-old, I’m feeling a bit un-moored, like a lot of my 11 and 12 year old clients must feel.  They’re not kids anymore, but they’re also not teenagers.  They’re in this weird in-between place where girls start getting hormonal and cranky and withdrawn and boys get these ridiculous peach fuzz/mustache combos that are embarrassing, but a sign of budding Manhood, so they wear them for far too long; they’re too old to play kids games anymore, but not quite old enough to have a boyfriend or girlfriend.

Essentially, I guess I feel like 40 is not in fact the new 20, it’s the new 12.  No clubs, no babies, but not yet time for Menopause………so what?

So, I bought myself a camera.  I real, honest-to-goodness camera.  I drove all the way to Best Buy one day, when I was angry at the world (in particular my husband), and told myself I wasn’t leaving that damn store without my own camera.  I told myself that I deserved it.  I had attempted to purchase myself a real camera twice during my 30’s, but was so overcome with guilt and shame at such an extravagant indulgence, that I immediately returned them the next day.  Both times.

But not this time.

I kept the camera.

Each day, after work, and after dinner has been served and eaten, I find myself grabbing my new camera, hanging the strap around my neck and venturing out to my backyard to explore.  It has given me a chance to look at my surroundings in so many different ways.  Before, my backyard was just my backyard, strewn with discarded toys and the occasional chicken strutting around.  But now, I step out onto the cool grass with my bare feet and feel so eager and excited about what I might find.

I look at things more closely.  I walk around my backyard more deliberately now, taking time to really look at things I took for granted.  I’ll look at the same things from different angles.  I’ll alter the focus so that different things are in focus at different times.

For instance, had I ever noticed how lonely the clothespin bag looks, hanging outside all alone, without any clothes?.

Or what about my Barred Rock Ginger?  She’s actually kind of pretty, even if she poops in the very water she drinks.

I’ve learned that when it’s 5:30 am and I’m on my back deck, alone having my coffee, that I much prefer the foggy mornings.


There is probably some existential symbolism in there somewhere about how, at 40, you start to look at your life differently, from different angles.  Maybe even relationships and people too.  That your age and wisdom has given you a new lens through which to see everything around you, and therefore a greater appreciation for it.   Sometimes I think I’m just bored and need something to occupy myself.  Who knows.  Maybe it’s both.


My older son asked me recently, “Why are you so into pictures lately mom?” (a bit of irritation in his voice, as he himself stands at the cusp of his own grumpy tween years) to which I replied, (my arms spread out wide for effect), “Because it’s all I have for a hobby right now!  It’s all I have that is just mine for nothing but enjoyment!  So please, let me have my pictures!!  And get over here and stand right here for me please because the sun is going to set soon!!!”–He looks overjoyed to be my subject.

I imagine a lot of other moms might be able to relate.  We spend our 20’s “finding ourselves”, spend our 30’s “losing ourselves” to our children and then comes 40 and we wonder what we’re supposed to do next?  Or maybe not.  Maybe other women have figured it out earlier than I have.

A friend of mine, who is decades older than I, posted on my Facebook Timeline last year for my 40th birthday, “Now the fun begins”.

I’m going to hold on to that one.  It gives me hope.  I trust that I’ll know what he means at some point.  Maybe my camera is helping me get there.  All I know is that at the moment, I just can’t stop taking pictures, so I’m thinking I probably shouldn’t.



The Exorcist,or, l’Exorciste.

There is nothing, and I mean nothing, more ludicrous than a bunch of twelve-year-old girls performing a séance. The 17th century Salem Witch Trials come to mind when I think about the levels of hysteria that took place in each of our bedroomsproof that adolescent girls had changed very little in the last three hundred years. Oftentimes, it wasn’t until someone went a bit too far that things would come to a halt, and oftentimes, that someone was me.

“Are you moving it?” I asked Deborah accusingly, our fingers shakily and lightly resting on the plastic planchette. Three or four other girls would be hunched over the OUIJA board in a semicircle while two of us sat in the middle, summoning a spirit, any spirit, to come to our bedrooms. Bedrooms that were plastered in Kirk Cameron posters, or New Kids On The Block, or Ralph Macchio while our teddy bears lay strewn about the bed. We were all inhabiting that space somewhere between boys and bears.

“No! I’m not!” Deborah would protest, looking around at all of us for reassurance that we believed her. Our young, prepubescent faces were illuminated by the numerous candles we had lit in an effort to make the room look and feel a bit more séance-like, our eyes as big as saucers.

“Yes she is! Let me do it!” Raquel would take over, kicking Deborah out of the middle and taking her spot across from me. It only made sense that Raquel help with the board, since this was her room. Deborah took her place among the rest of the huddled girls, hands clasped in fear, shrinking from the dark corners of the bedroom. Raquel dramatically closed her eyes and carefully placed her fingers on the edge of the planchette, her head slightly raised, perhaps to more easily reach the ghosts we were all certain were hiding just behind us in her closet, or under the bed.

“Is someone there?” she would ask in her most theatrical voice. Collectively holding our breath, we all stared as the planchette slowly made its way to “YES.” My eyes met Raquel’s in a mutual look of horror and delight.

Someone gasped and frantically whispered, “Someone just touched my shoulder!” causing the whole lot of us to grab on to one another, look all around and over our own shoulders in gleeful terror.

Placing our fingers back on the edge, Raquel would ask, “Who are you?” and again, it would slowly move to the letters beginning to spell out a name.

“‘J.’ ‘A.’”

“Oh my God, did you hear that? Did you hear that?” someone would squeal, and we would again grab each other and huddle, waiting for a dresser to be thrown onto us, or someone’s closet door to randomly swing open. Suddenly, the board would fly off our knees and spill into the middle of the floor. The six of us would scream and run out of the room, beckoning to Raquel’s mother that there were demons in Raquel’s room.

Another time, my friends Tami and Tiffany were at my house. I met Tami in the 5th grade when she came to our school as a new student. She stood all of 5’1”, wearing pink overalls and a cast on her right leg. The teacher had asked me to show Tami around and help her out that day. Tami was nervous and shy and hobbling everywhere and I was given a job to do, which made us fast friends. I first met Tiffany from afar, a couple of years alter.  It was recess in the winter time. She was surrounded by a group of her friends and was holding their attention with her antics. I remember envying her charisma.

The three of us were next to my bed, huddled on the floor over my Ouija board, whispering and trying to contact Jennifer Stife. I channeled my best Abigail Williams and feigned being possessed by an evil demon. Mid-séance, I held out my arms zombie-style, moaning and making wide-eyes, causing Tami and Tiffany to scramble back toward the door, screaming in terror as they threw it open and raced down our stairs as fast as their feet could take them.

“What the hell are you girls doing up there?” my father asked, taking his feet off the ottoman, his cross-word puzzle half done. He craned his neck to look up the stairs, Tiffany and Tami practically jumping over the banister toward him.

“Michelle! For crying out loud, what is all the screaming about!?” My mom emerged from her bedroom where she and my sister were cuddling and watching some TV show. “It’s past 9:00 and it’s time for you girls to start calming down!”

My dear, sweet friends, huddling at the bottom of the stairs, reluctantly came back up as I hid in the bathroom, stifling my laughter. Once they reached the top of the stairs, I again came out of the darkness moaning, arms outstretched, which caused yet another barrage of screams as they scrambled to get back into my bedroom. It was all fun and games for me until, trying to follow them, they slammed my bedroom door right into my face, nearly giving me a concussion. I started crying. There is no limit to the hysteria that can happen among a few girls in Junior High within the span of 15 minutes.

Here again, I felt a bit badly for my parents. Things would have been so much more cut and dry if we had been boys. We could have just beaten the crap out of each other, given a couple bloody noses, and been done with it. But where’s the imagination in that? Where’s the ingenuity? The innovation? It was far, far more creative to feign demon possession.

This is how the large majority of our sleepovers went when I was 12. Always the Ouija board. Always the screaming. In particular, Tami and I had an unnatural preoccupation with the paranormal, and when we weren’t trying to psychologically torture ourselves, we seemed to enjoy putting others through it as well. Especially unsuspecting 7th grade French-Canadian exchange students.

Sophie and Karin came to Swanton, Vermont one early winter weekend after Tami and I spent some time in their country several weeks prior—one of the perks of living just a few miles from the Canadian border. During our visit to St. Jean, Quebec, Sophie and Karin took us clothes shopping, played French board games, and introduced us to their favorite weekly show that resembled America’s Little House On The Prairie, save for the occasional boob shot now and then. Karin, my exchange student, was a stickler for only talking to me in French, despite her family’s attempts to speak to me in English and give me a break.

“Eh, eh, eh! En français!” Karin would scold her sweet family, while I looked helplessly at her parents, desperate to know what they were all trying to tell me. No amount of tutoring seemed to help me.  I would never learn French.

In exchange, when Sophie and Karin arrived in The States and to the front steps of my house for their first-ever American sleepover, Tami and I swiftly brought them to my room, shut the door behind us, turned out all of the lights, and subjected them to the horror movie of all horror movies.

The Exorcist.

In our defense, The Devil did speak some French during one point in the movie.

The only reason we even had access to such a terrifying movie (and clearly not age-appropriate) was that my father had recorded it off of the TV. It was his hobby. I would venture to bet that we had one of the largest underground operations of piracy taking place right from our living room. And when I say “operation” I’m not talking about a few recorded movies here and there. We had thousands. For all intents and purposes, we had an in-home video store for our very own personal use.

Each VHS tape had at least two or more recorded movies on it, along with a cut-out of the TV Guide synopsis taped onto the outside of the VHS jacket. We had dozens of VHS drawers stacked on top of one another lining our living room in lieu of end tables. In addition, my father had put together a typed catalog of his movies, which included genre, rating, title, length and tape number.

In sharp contrast to the hysterics I brought to the house, my father seemed to be desperately trying to find some order. So many lists, so many categories, so much time spent labeling and organizing. I imagine it gave him some kind of solace to have at least something in his life that made sense to him. It was too bad you couldn’t categorize or label a marriage, fatherhood, or a confused and melodramatic 12-year-old daughter.

As Tami and I took out the seemingly endless list of movies in an effort to locate The Exorcist, my father tried to communicate with Sophie and Karin. Unfortunately, he was under the impression that he knew more French than he actually did. He sat in his chair, stumbling over his French words, adding hand gestures and throwing in an English word here or there. Sophie and Karin were visibly confused and uncomfortable, swapping perplexed glances with one another, until I finally grabbed our movie and rescued them from my father’s sweet but embarrassing attempt to seem cultured.

Once in my bedroom, which was strewn with sleeping bags and duffle bags full of clothes, and teddy bears, Tami and I cued the movie and immediately fast-forwarded to the best parts: innocent little Reagan being whipped back and forth on her bed like a rag dollher head spinning 360 degrees, her green vomit landing all over the priest’s face. When she began speaking in French in her sinister Satan voice, we paused the movie to ask Sophie and Karin, “What is she saying at that part?” but were only met with the violent shaking of their heads as they cowered beneath their sleeping bags. At each horrifying scene, we all screamed in unison and laughed afterward. Well, Tami and I laughed. Poor Sophie and Karin sat, huddled in each others’ arms on top of their sleeping bags and screaming something in French—I didn’t know what, because I had a C in French and had to be driven to my French teacher’s house twice a week to get tutored. Eventually we shut down the movie and sat around and talked about boys, which seemed the only other exciting topic at the time, and one in which we all shared common interest.

After all of the frightening fun of sitting through scary movies—and forcing Sophie and Karin to watch them—and having performed séances with my friends while feigning demon possession to get a rise out of people—the truth was, as I lay in bed at night unable to sleep, I was terrified. Maybe I had become preoccupied with demon possession, because at twelve I was starting to feel a bit out of control myself. I was starting to change in ways I didn’t understand, almost as if someone else was taking over my body or my mind.  I felt things I didn’t understand and did things I didn’t always understand.

Maybe little Reagan and I had more in common than I liked to admit.

In the dark of my room, I would lay flat on my back and wait for odd sounds or random movements. I would lie there, certain that my own bed was starting to tremble, expecting to be thrown around in my nightgown and start speaking in tongues like Linda Blair. That’s when I would start to pray to God. I would clasp my hands in desperation and plead, “Please God, keep me safe. Please God, keep me safe. Please God, keep me safe.” My bedroom door, which was directly across from me, slowly opened. The light from the hall would shine in, and my mother’s silhouette appeared.

“Chelle honey, don’t forget you’ve got your class pictures tomorrow, ok? I washed your favorite red shirt to wear.”

My mom gently placed a warm and folded pile of clothes on top of my dresser. Of course I forgot tomorrow was class picture day. Of course I wouldn’t have remembered to wear my favorite red shirt. Those were things that I took for granted at my age. My mother remembered all of those kinds of things for me. While I was busy indulging in hysterics all day long, she was keeping tally of everything that needed to be done to make sure real life went smoothly for me. I never seemed to have to worry about having clean clothes. They were just always there when I opened up the drawers. And with a kiss on my forehead, she shut the door behind her and I fell fast asleep.

The Good Dinosaur and The Chicken Whisperer.

My older son Silas and I had just returned home from my Zumba class on Tuesday evenings.  Since my husband and younger son were off at hockey practice, he had the choice to hang around the rink for two hours, or hang out with his good friend Payton while her mother taught class and I desperately tried to keep up with her.   Pulling into our driveway just before 8:00pm, Payton and her mom dropped us off and headed back to their house right next door.

As we headed toward the house, the wind was so strong I had to re-gain my balance.   It was also completely dark outside, being almost 8:00 at night.  The trees along the small woods that surrounded our house on three sides were swaying back and forth and I had to yell in order to be heard.

“Si!  We have to let the chickens in!”.  We had let the chickens out earlier that afternoon and needed to make sure they were all back in their coop for the night.  I motioned for Silas to follow me to the backyard and down to the edge of our woods where our coop sat, but he stood at the corner of our garage, still on the black top.

“But mom, it’s so windy!  Is it a hurricane?  Is it a tornado?”.

Silas has always been more afraid than my younger son, Sam.  I can remember nursing Silas when he was just weeks old, looking down at him peacefully eating.  Almost sleeping.  I sneezed once and the poor kid practically jumped out of his skin.  His arms flailed way out to the side and he screamed for several minutes until my rocking him and kissing him and cooing him had calmed him down enough.  He was also my first-born.  I had no idea what I was doing and so was cautious and over-protective myself.  His already-amped-up nervous system combined with my Newbie mom skills has supplied him with a good dose of anxiety.   He is terrified of thunder and storm clouds and is obsessed with the scene in The Wizard of Oz when the twister comes.

Pushing myself against the wind as I made my way to the chicken coop, I yelled back, my voice probably lost in the wind, “No honey, it’s not a tornado! It’s just windy!!”.

But he wasn’t moving.  “But mom…..”.  I saw his silhouette against the kitchen light of the house, just standing there.

Down by the coop, I took my phone flashlight and shone it near the hen-house my husband had built and noticed that all of our chickens were huddled on top of the mesh fencing, bracing themselves against the wind and trying to stay warm.  Their door to the coop was shut for some reason, so they couldn’t get in.  I hollered back to Si that the chickens were locked out and that we were going to need to pick them up and carry them back in to the coop.  But, he wasn’t behind me and I couldn’t hear him or see him.  I’d guessed he retreated to the house, which is what Dorothy’s whole family did when the tornado hit Kansas.

The thing was, Silas was “The Chicken Whisperer”.  He had a way with animals and was able to coral them back to the coop whenever.  I’d often find him sitting out back of our house, in the grass, just hanging with the chickens, talking to them, always holding at least one in his arms.

I stood there trying to figure out what to do.  I didn’t want to have to pick them up.  They squawked and made a fuss and their wings felt gross to me and I was nervous around them.  How was I going to get them in there??

But, before I even had to decide, Silas came up from behind me and I heard him yelling so as to be heard over the wind:

“Mom!  In the movie The Good Dinosaur, Arlo’s father says, ‘Face your Fears!!'”

And with that, he marched over to the chickens, his jacket flapping wildly in the wind, leaves and small twigs blowing haphazardly all around us, and he picked them up one by one, talking to them gently and putting them back in their coop.

Arlo reminds me very much of my son Silas, and I am so proud of him for already working hard to push through his fears and see the beauty on the other side.  He’s an inspiration to me.  God, I love that kid.