Anxiety, waiting for Willow

The hairs on the back of my neck and upper arms stands up. I try not to clench my jaw because of my crowns. My chest feels like it does right before you burp, just as you are about to have heartburn. My hands reflexively go to my face, my eyes. I push the skin of my left orbit up onto it's browbone. I push the left eyelid to its outside corner. I feel the cool tingling of hairs standing up on the outside-bottom of my thighs. My toes lift, stiff off the ground and press into the tops of my chuck taylors. I press my head into my right palm so that the ball of the hand fits into the stop above my nose. My cool right thumb gently touches my right cheek. My right elbow sits into and against my stomach. I feel hungry. I take my hand away and bring it back with the nail beds against my upper lip with the knuckle bending under my nose. My son is asleep. This is supposed to be relaxing time, but I am picking up my daughter, a new stressor. It rains. Sit my body down in the leather comfy chair. The cushions give. My back eases into slick softness. A piece with an arabic wavering scale ends; Reggae music begins. A woman in a red fleece pullover talks to the comfortably dressed guy obviously studying something at the table they share. I can hear their voices. It is one of those rare instances when you can hear the cadence of your own language without understanding the words, like it might sound to a nonspeaker. A beeper is quieted. There is a low murmer from the mall hallway outside. A man in a deep olive denim coat hunches over the table in front of me, his back to me. The pregnant woman with the beautiful pink and sparkly silver scarf contrasting perfectly with her aqua top seems to be staring at me but she must just be looking out the window. My stomach begins to ease into my body that is settled in the chair. Why the delay? Anxiety. My ever present company, except when it's not. I could burst into tear at any moment if I only thought the necessary cue. My stomach hungers for the peace it seems everyone else has. Don't they see that it could all fall apart at any second? Scarf lady has a Coach bag. I wonder if it's real. Good for her, drinking water with her hot drink. She must be due any day now. It's so optimistic of her, having a baby I mean. There's a man outside with one of those podlike newer strollers that would have given me stroller envy back in the stroller days. Hard to believe I'm actually out of my stroller years now. Wow. That's significant. I'm actually an "experienced" mom now. Who'd believe that? It's been a six year trial by fire. I've been heated, hammered, forged, bent, flash cooled, reheated, shaped, sharpened in some places, dulled in others. I do not feel like the same. woman I was six years and 70 lbs ago. Olive military jacket guy has left. An 80sesque ballad rains from the speakers. I notice my reflection in the edge of the open doors. My head looks too small for my body. I don't seem tht way to myself. I am always shocked to see what I actually look like. My personal self image is about 30 lbs lighter. Scarf lady has left. Pod stroller guy is making up a bottle. Mantis guy is tricked-out with his own little stainless bottle warmer nd everything. Baby is hungry. Funny how now I smile at that. With my first each cry was like a lightning bolt up my spine, and nursing was so complicated. I was convinced mness baby could not have a bottle until after four weeks and I remember honesty believing it was possible tht I might not live tht long. Now they play an 80s high school anthem. Somehow that was 22 years ago, and it happened with each moment dripping by just as they do now. The constant monarch of time bothers me. I had classic Peter Pan syndrome. I did not want to grow up. Even as a teen I was aware of being that age and becoming what I had thought of as a child as grow ups who still went to school. Now my peers look like the grown ups did when I was a kid. Real grown ups, not young adults or hipsters. Real, actual middle age. That makes my Dad old now somehow. He seems. Wry much the same though, a little stiffer, a little grayer maybe, but not OLD. He says he has no intion of dying. Good. Me either. It occurs to me that the David Bowie they are playing is not "normal" anymore, it's "retro," like the Beatles were in the 80s, well maybe the Stones, anyway 20yrs old. Finally, an older style bluesy song I don't know. What a relief. My right ankle is starting to ache from sitting "criss-cross applesauce" as they call it now. A big guy maybe 15 yrs my senior is setting up his laptop. Computer girl and study guy are packing up to leave. I am going to have to leave in a few minutes too. And back to the 80s music. A lot of women walk around voluntarily in heels. What is with that? I suppose they were less unbearable when I wasn't overweight. Pod stroller baby's mother has red curly hair. Really curly. Cool. Didn't see that coming. Racist. Do I regret having children? I regret how I handled my body. I wish I could have never experienced all the mental anguish I have, the very real suffering. But I like my kids and I think they're going to be good additions to the species. In truth, I envy them sometimes. Not always though. They will never know the predictability my childhood had, the absolute security. So, on the whole, no, not for their sake. Of course with hindsit the are things I would have done differently, or I like to think I would do differently now. But you do the best you can with what you have at the time. Big breath in, slowly out. This topic is stressing me. As is the impending end of my free time. After all this writing I am slightly less close to tears than when I entered. Pooh, red pullover woman has the cutest hello kitty denim tote bag! Curly mom is laughing at and playing with her baby. That's good. I think I did that with my first. I hope I did. I sometimes feel a little estranged from her vs from my son, but I don't know ifits the age or the difficulty I had with nursing her or what. Probably a little of both. Ok so now I have to get the kids, get home, make dinner, and get them to bed before imam safe again. Who doesn't feel safe taking care of her own kids? But I don't. It stresses me out. They whine and argue with me. They need things. They want things. Dave was so right. And good for him to know himself that well, really. That was also a long time ago. So what happens when you start to have more past than future? Do you get more deliberate? I should. I would like to. I think.