Fearing Heights, Jumping, And Lizard Brain Love

Fearing Heights

This photo makes my stomach drop. I’m terrified of heights and am pretty sure my fear has gotten worse as I’ve gotten older. “How in the world did you jump out of an airplane?” my husband has asked. More than once.

At 13,000 feet, height doesn’t feel scary any longer. Up there, it’s too unreal to be frightening. It’s not until you get closer to the ground that fear kicks in. Of course, it kicks in earlier, but all it took for me to jump was my tandem instructor saying “Hey, I wanna go skydiving. Do you want to go skydiving?” And I jumped. Jumped again, in other states with other instructors seven times or so. 

Today, I’d be afraid to jump from a perfectly good airplane. It felt amazing back when, but becoming a mom changes so much about adrenaline highs and risks, and well, when your son is born, you claim a new mantra. “I can’t die, because my baby needs me.”

As moms and others who want to be here to care for the ones they love most, we do jump, although maybe not from an airplane if it’s not on fire or whatever. 

Jumping

“I know something’s wrong,” I said. “He should have sentences by now.” When I knew enough to say something to a doctor, I was told to wait. I knew she was wrong, but I wasn’t ready. Maybe, I was still packing my parachute. Six months later, it was packed, and I jumped. Evaluations, tests, more evaluations, and a woman who touched my arm, looked me in the eyes, and said “I’ll tell you now – this is not just a speech delay.” Even now, I think I add in the touching my arm part to make that experience feel more comforting. I didn’t feel comforted. I’m pretty sure she didn’t touch my arm, or say the words that changed my life with gentleness. Maybe we all rewrite history to be how we wish it was. 

After her words, I jumped again, into preschool autism classroom, when I’d hoped for a co-op Montesorry experience, like the one I was in at age three.

***

Each night, seconds before I fall asleep, I have this quick dream-wake thing, where I’m falling, or Tucker’s falling. A balcony, a ditch, a bridge… My stomach drops, and I fall asleep. It’s weird, but it’s almost like the sensation and fear is letting me know I’m about to sleep. Terrifying, but beautiful in a strange way.

I love sleep, and yet, so many mornings when I wake, I realize how completely out I’ve been, and think again that if I’d been dying while dreaming, I’d not even be aware enough to wake myself up to call 911. I wonder if I worry about dying too much.

Butterfly magic is real, but so is a fear of leaving a 10-year-old motherless. I have a tendency to catastrophize. Not realistic, I’m sure, but there anyway, the same way it’s impossible to not think of a bridge collapsing while driving on it. Opening the car windows just in case.

Lizard Brain Love

When Tucker graduated from preschool autism class and started kindergarten, it was in a mainstream classroom. It was a jump, and scary as hell. We went to the open house – held on a Thursday – and once we were home, I panicked, and emailed his teacher. And the special ed liaison. And the principal. “Today was great, and thank you but we need to come back. He needs to see your face,” and well, a bunch of other words I’m probably not proud of because panic over our kids brings out our lizard brains, and as we all know, our lizard brain responses aren’t always kind or thought out or rational in any way.

Lizard brain mode is all “Look, I know I seemed like a together adult earlier, but now I’m panicking over my kid and either you’ll help me or I’ll have to eat my tail” or whatever it is that lizards do when they’re afraid and worried.

I thought I may never admit this but hello, all. I was a jerk lizard but I’m glad I was. She replied, and we went the next day and all was well. To date, she’s one of my favorite teachers. 

***

I love standing on top of the world, both physically, and mentally. I’ve had a hard time doing so mentally recently, so seek out the physical. However, I realize standing on top of the world feels powerful, but that driving on roads like Pikes Peak Highway is totally terrifying.

No guardrails for most of it, and gigantic drops. I had to close my eyes.

I’m afraid of heights. It’s part of my inner dialogue to look at guardrails on mountain passes and think “um, that won’t do much if we’re rolling over…” But on Pikes Peak Highway? There aren’t even guardrails, and I realize how much safer they make me feel.

***

Parenting doesn’t have guardrails. We jump in and go. We’re pioneers, and jump into opportunities, and stop jumping out of airplanes. 

***

Last night, Tucker wanted me to stay in his room longer than “goodnight.” He talked to me about puberty, and school, and how he wonders how his body will change. He’s so open and sweet still, although his armpits are beginning to stink in a new way. His old stink was playground mulch and something like earth. Most of the time, he still smells like that but every now and again, there’s the scent of becoming. 

I think it’ll be a jump for both of us, but I’ve got our parachutes packed. Or, at least, ready to pack. 

This has been a Finish the Sentence Friday post, with the prompt this week being Mardra Sikora’s photo shown at the top of the post.