I am so freaked out right now.
I have been following the Ebola outbreak since it was only a few hundred cases. With deaths now in the thousands and yesterday’s revelation that a patient strolled into a Dallas emergency room twice before diagnosis, my anxiety is in overdrive.
I am a confirmed fatalist.
Whenever “they” (experts, government, scholars) say something isn’t possible, I pop on my tin foil hat and prepare for the inevitable disaster and/or zombie apocalypse.
I believe in conspiracies, cover-ups, and E.T.
I believe there may be secret CIA messages in my Alphabet Soup.
I believe we all have an FBI file and mine is labeled, “Too easily distracted to be of concern.”
I believe Windex may cure dandruff.
Despite this Chicken Little personality, I refuse to sound the panic button within the walls of my home. Having children somehow awoke a portion of my brain never before used:
When the boys resisted swimming in the ocean last spring (thanks in large part to my husband’s non-stop viewing of “Shark Week”), I found myself citing statistics and actuarial improbability.
When my middle son, Jack, hyperventilated as tornado sirens blared this summer, I assured him tornados only touched down in Chicago every 80 years and the last one was 1961, so we were all good.
When my youngest son, Joey, spotted a centipede the size of his head sprinting across his bedroom, I presented him with the data on how centipedes eat all bad bugs and keep our entire family safe from harm.
Joey named his new pet, “Harry.”
I am not sure who this new-fangled, calmer-of-all-fears is. She looks like me. She sounds like me. But how could she possibly BE me?
It is almost as though I was abducted by aliens and replaced with the dad from “The Brady Bunch.”
It’s all starting to make sense now….
Marianne is mother of three sons and the wife of a southside Irish fireman. She has learned that sometimes you're just too dumb to know what makes you happy. She blogs regularly at We Band of Mothers (webandofmothers.com) and curses with even greater frequency. Her material is written for the imperfect, the imprudent, and the impatient mothers who know that all this stuff is really very funny if you just give it a minute.
See more of Marianne's stories here.
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