(I’m writing this with our nine month old daughter crawling all over me)
Parenthood stops for nothing, not even death.
Which brings me to this blog. You see, I’m an orphan. At 35.
And one of my “things” is talking to psychics. I tell my husband, D, that its healing for me and he just rolls his eyes and says it’s a waste of money and “how many psychics can I talk to?”. So when I told him over dinner the evening before, that I had a call at noon the next day with a local psychic who was a friend of a friend, he just looked at me and did his ‘flicking crumbs off of his thumb with his fingers’ motion (which irritates the fuck out of me) which denotes he’s annoyed.
And we had the same exchange; healing, waste of money blah blah blah. But I told him this time that I was looking for guidance. He perked up a little. Earlier in the week, I confessed over a plate of Moroccan chicken and massaged kale with tahini sauce and diced potatoes (which was delicious and would not have gone to waste on any other day) that I had a drinking problem. And since then he’s been supportive and also trying to figure me out; depression and anxiety (yes and yes), boredom maybe needs a job (no thanks, I have two tiny bosses that dictate every waking hour of my life just fine), needs a hobby (ok, maybe), needs more friends (have we met? Anxiety plus two children does not a fun time Shannon make). We both decided that I should head to a psychiatrist about my anxiety since I was already on medication for my postpartum depression. But in the meantime, I had my call with the psychic to help calm my nerves and he liked the idea that this time I wasn’t trying to talk to dead people but was instead looking for a path to well-being, so he let the subject go.
The morning of my call, I woke up feeling fuzzy. I had yet another dream about my parents. This time I woke myself up by saying out loud “I don’t have hockey practice” in response to my dream moms question about what time hockey practice was. (I never played hockey growing up). Since I had quit the booze after my startling confession, I was no longer waking up every morning at 3am, anxious and regretful. Now I was sleeping the sleep of comatose. The same sleep I had when I was pregnant – which I’m not! Now I wake up around 5:30 to use the restroom and promptly go back to sleep until 7:30 when Tootsie, our nine month old, wakes me up. So the fuzzy headedness confused me since I’ve been getting much better sleep.
The morning was normal, Ds dad came over with breakfast, hung out with the kids. D went for a walk and when he came back I went upstairs to use the spin bike. Then D and our three year old, Mr. Man, went to Target while I got Tootsie to sleep. And before I knew it, it was time for the call with the psychic! I took Tootsie outside so she would have a new environment to explore and wouldn’t get fussy while I was on the call, which worked like a charm while I waited. Then, one of our neighbors decided right then and there it would be the best idea ever to start trimming up this dead tree that grew on his side of the fence in the corner between our houses. Tootsie was enthralled, the dogs, which I kept inside for this exact reason, started losing their shit – barking their faces off. And then she called. The psychic. And for whatever reason, I decided it was best to have her on speakerphone. Loud enough for my neighbor to hear and most certainly judge me for wanting to talk to dead people.