My youngest son turned 16 a couple of months ago. He wasted no time getting his driver’s license. While I am excited about this milestone in his life, I lament the end of yet another chapter of motherhood. My husband and I decided he was ready to drive to school. To be totally transparent, my son and my husband embraced the concept wholeheartedly while I begrudgingly agreed. Instead of driving him to school and creeping along in the parent drop-off lane, I watch eagerly as he slowly reverses out of the driveway, fighting tears as the car disappears from my line of sight.
It’s not just being an overprotective mom, I also miss those sacred moments when it’s just the two of us in the car, chatting aimlessly about the serious as well as the mundane during those twenty minutes or so. We listened to the radio and provided commentary on pop culture and the latest celebrity antics. I got updates on the current project, anxiety about an upcoming test, or who blasted whom on social media recently. It was special, a few swatches of time with my youngest child, that meant the world to me.
Courtesy of GoalCast via Facebook
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During a recent family vacation to an amusement park, we discovered that our youngest son loves roller coasters. Like a true adrenaline junky! We visited the park on two different days, and the highlight of both visits was the roller coasters.
While my husband and son enjoyed the rides, I was the designated backpack holder and cell phone keeper because I hate roller coasters. In fact, hate seems too mild to describe my feelings. Under no uncertain terms do I enjoy going uber fast, compounded by steep and unexpected drops, sudden, jerky movements, and/or being flung upside down. No thank you!
In spite of my aversion, I agreed to ONE ride. It was a family vacation after all, so I agreed to give it one try. It was the worst two minutes of my life. Afterwards, we walked around the park for an entire hour before I spoke a single word to my husband or my son. Did I mention that I hate roller coasters?
Later on that the evening, my husband asked me a question that really got me thinking: why do you hate roller coasters so much? And I really had to think about it. I can’t recall a bad experience or anything traumatic related to roller coasters. I don’t even know when or how I decided I don’t like them; I just don’t. I was stumped.
Since I couldn’t come up with a why, I started thinking about the way I feel on roller coasters. And that is when I had my “AH-HAH” moment. It’s the physical sensation that I dislike. It starts in the pit of my stomach. It’s a tightening deep in my belly, where my insides constrict. The feeling slowly spreads, moving up through my stomach, creeping upwards towards my chest. Next comes the sensation of being restricted, a literal squeezing that extends from my lower belly up through my chest cavity that grips me.
It is paralyzing.
It is oddly familiar.
It is fear.
So here’s my truth: I don’t like roller coasters because they are a physical manifestation of fear.
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