The only thing to fear . . .

. . . is fear itself? Sometimes I wonder about that.

Last night I had what I can only call a "fear" attack--it felt a little like a panic attack: this cold, unreasoning feeling (in the back of my mind, it really did seem irrational) that I couldn't shake off. My husband finally talked me through it, but for about half an hour I felt like I wanted to curl into a tight ball and just disappear.

What was I so afraid of? Well, it almost sounds silly in black and white (and in daylight): I'd been reading predictions about the future of the university (some, like Bill Gates, maintain that in 5-10 years most of university work will be done online) and I had this terrible vision of a future where my husband and I were out of work (with no hope of employment) because we lived in this futuristic society with technology that was beyond us. Today, of course, this seems laughable: while I do think universities are going to rely increasingly on online courses, I don't know that there will be such a drastic shift so quickly--I think that the "university experience" of sitting in classes and sharing apartments with other like minded souls is such a powerful part of going to college that it will persist to some degree. Also, it's unlikely that both of us (we're smart, hard-working people) would suddenly become so inept that we couldn't learn a new trade if we had to.

Still, the feeling of fear was very real and very intense. And telling myself that it was irrational--or that it was a failure of faith on my part--didn't seem to help.

Am I the only one who ever feels like this? What do you (that is, if anyone is reading this with similar experience) do to snap out of it?

Post-Party slump

Last night, about quarter after nine, I decided officially that I must be crazy.

Why, you might ask? Well, at that point I was in the throes of frosting a cake for my soon-to-be five-year-old's birthday party. The cake was constructed, the sides and top were frosted, and all that remained was the construction and frosting of a nightfury (the main dragon from How to Train Your Dragon, for the uninitiated). That's all.

I have this little problem with over-ambitious cakes. I blame it on taking a series of cake-decorating classes several years ago (and a current fondness for Food Network's Cake Challenges, among other things): I now have delusions of grandeur. And, since I only ever make these cakes twice a year (once for each kid's birthday), I have plenty of time in between to forget that maybe I'm not quite as talented at making cakes as I'd like to believe.

But I digress. The cake was eventually finished (at close to 10 p.m.), and this morning, almost as soon as I was coherent, I was back into the swing of things, getting ready for the party this morning. I roped my husband into helping, and by 9:30 (the party was at 10 a.m.), the house was clean, the floors mopped, the activities staged, the cake ready for display.

All this preparation: and within less than an hour four little boys had swept through all of it: the snacks, the activities, the cake . . . And I find myself wondering, why do I do this? Why do we, as a culture, do this? (I'm pretty certain I wouldn't go to all this effort if there weren't a certain amount of cultural expectation attendant on birthday parties). Of course, I have my own reasons: I'm not always the most fun, or spontaneous of mothers, and I want my kids to have some memories of me from childhood as the fun mom who put on good birthday parties; I want my son to know that I love him, and some of that is reflected in the amount of effort I put into his party (and the cake); and (if I'm really honest), I want to impress people with my cake-making abilities. (Which are by no means professional, but are--if I say so myself--at least a little above par). So, a mix of selfish and altruistic motives.

Something funny happens after a party--after all the rush and enthusiasm you're left with, what? An empty house and a mess to clean up: crumpled wrapping paper on the floor, half-eaten bits of cake on plates (and on the floor), scattered party favors. Personally, I always find the aftermath a little depressing. I don't have enough perspective on the event to savor the memory (which is usually overshadowed by the effort to pull it off); the introvert in me is exhausted; and the emptiness (and the mess) are somehow daunting.

Wouldn't it, then, be easier simply to not have birthday celebrations? Or holidays? (With Christmas looming over me--and presents purchased but not yet wrapped--I can't escape the comparison). Wouldn't it be easier to simply let the days slide past in an undifferentiated, mildly pleasant haze?

I'm not so sure. Personally, most of the time I *like* the anticipation of change. I even like the challenge (if I'm not overburdened with other tasks) of pulling together a smallish event. On the whole, I think I'd rather have a life punctuated with both highs--and lows--than one that hums along monotonously (even if that might be more comfortable most of the time). Just remind me I said this next time I find myself in a post-party slump.

Reflections on Christmas and Memory

It's that time of the month again (and no, I don't know what you're thinking): I've posted over at Segullah. Please come visit!