Clara Jane returned home on Sunday and she still hasn’t adjusted to summer break. Latest fear: aliens are going to take Brian hostage at work, eat him, and we’ll be an all-girl family. I blame my friend Stacey for this. Back when Clara Jane was a day old, Stacey told a story about being afraid aliens would attack while she was having oral surgery in a Chicago high-rise. I’m pretty sure Clara Jane overheard. This is how deep-seeded irrational fears begin.

It has not been a fun week. There have been fun moments, like spending an afternoon at Children’s Museum, aside from getting drenched in one of Edwardsville’s current crop of monsoonanados.  They were kind enough to let us come and play, even though we looked a little like sewer rats.

Other than that,the rest of the week consisted of Clara Jane crying about missing her dad, wanting me to go to work full-time, designing a money-making machine so that Brian no longer has to go to work, and requesting to move to my parents’ house … the usual forms of five-year-old angst.

I wish I was exaggerating in that last paragraph. I’m not.

What has kept me from eating my young this week? A steady diet of live rock and roll. We started a week ago Saturday, while the alien-phobe was still at her real home with my parents. Brian and I took advantage of all the amenities of The Deluxe, which might be my new favorite place ever. Diner food. A DJ who spins the likes of Sonic Youth and the White Stripes. $7 pitchers of PBR. Live music from three of my favorite local bands (The 75’s, The Nevermores, and Left Arm) on a really fantastic sound system.

I’m campaigning to get any and/or all of these bands to play the next St. Louis Rock n’ Romp. Pester them about it, okay?

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There’s a reason I haven’t written for so long. Writing makes me think about things I don’t necessarily want to consider.

Last Thursday, my family lost a dear friend. Not just a friend, but an honorary member of our brood.

My parents and I met Flo and her husband Rudy in 1988, when my parents bought the house where they still live. Flo and Rudy were one of their few neighbors. We knew of them from the previous residents – my aunt’s inlaws – who had told us that the retired couple were nice, but a little odd. Kept to themselves for the most part, but never failed to smile and wave during their daily walks. We’d lived there for a few months before I met them. I was walking home from the abandoned elementary school, where I often went to hit tennis balls against a brick wall, and fell into stride with them during one of their walks. Since they had a reputation for being stand-offish, I was surprised when they didn’t hesitate to ask me about tennis. Did I take lessons? Play on the high school team? Hitting balls at Jefferson School? What a great idea! Even Chrissy Evert had to start somewhere.

I don’t know when their relationship with my family shifted, but over the years Flo and Rudy became fixtures in our lives. They loved children and pets, but chose to not have either. This didn’t stop them from taking an interest in me and, later, Clara Jane. Almost daily, they’d come visit my parents’ menagerie.

Two years ago Flo and Rudy decided they were tired of maintaining a house. Having entered their 80s, they took their beloved retirement a step further by moving into a luxury retirement complex. Beautiful gardens without the lawn work. Meals without the cooking. Housekeeping service. All the good stuff they deserved. Still, it was hard to think that they wouldn’t be next door to my parents anymore.

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And thus it ends. As of Thursday afternoon, Clara Jane is no longer a pre-kindergarten student.

The morning started like every morning for the past week: with teeth-gnashing, wailing, and extreme duress for everyone involved. Several of the moms I’ve gotten to know this school year could tell I was nearing the end of my rope; I’m sure I looked as exhausted and exasperated as I felt. But by the end of her last day, Clara Jane was in fine spirits. She took one last spin around the playground, hugged a few friends, and came home without battle. For the rest of the afternoon and evening, she was a different kid. Happy, relaxed, and meltdown-free…

Until bedtime. Now we have a new battle cry:

“I DON’T WANNA GO TO KINDERGARTEN!!!”

It’s going to be a long three months.

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And so it continues. Clara Jane’s anxiety hasn’t improved, and my patience are gone. I find myself losing empathy and compassion for my own child.

Tomorrow’s the last day of school. Even though she’s so upset about the end of the school year, I have a feeling that come Friday, when the anticipation is gone, she’ll be fine. Inconsistant and non-sensical as that is, I’m hoping for it.

With my own panic and anxiety problems, I long ago learned that it’s not the actual focus of my fear that scares me. It’s the fear itself.

You know what helps? The new Wilco album leaked last night. I usually stay away from early album leaks because 1) I love the anticipation of a new release. It’s like Christmas. And 2) I don’t want people reading my rough drafts, so I shouldn’t listen to what amounts to a rough draft of someone else’s creation. But dammit, I’ve had a week of child hysteria. I got my foot stomped by a horse. Twice. I’ve got allergies that two daily doses of Claratin can’t budge. I’m listening to the damn album.

It’s not like I won’t be spending money on the CD when it comes out. And the vinyl version. And concert tickets. And shirts for Clara Jane. And a new sticker for my truck to replace the one that’s peeling. And probably a new tote bag. Maybe a new hat. I could just endorse my paychecks directly to the band, really.

(You can listen, too. The band was nice enough to stream the album on their website after the leak.)

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This is Clara Jane’s last week of school, and you know what that means.

It means the world is coming to a crashing, fiery end!!!!

I’m hiding at the giant chain coffeehouse where I go when I need to write without being disturbed. I’m refusing to make friends here, because I need a place to escape sometimes. I have a feeling I’m going to be here every day this week, which means I’ll know everyone by the end of it and have to find another giant chain coffeehouse refuge. It’s Robin’s Rotating Coffeehouse Anxiety Tour, ‘09! Buy your tickets now for Monday! Monday! Monday!

I’ve documented my history of anxiety and panic attacks at length in the years I’ve had this blog. I haven’t shied from having rather public mental meltdowns. At this time four years ago I documented my experience with cognitive behavioral therapy to reign in my brain. For the most part, it’s worked. Sure, I have occasional flare-ups, but mostly I’m able to keep my mental terror rating at a nice, neurotic yellow.

Years ago my therapist and I came to the conclusion that my anxiety and panic attacks were tightly linked to the sudden death of my beloved grandfather when I was four years old. So much so that I’m carrying a dianosis for post-traumatic stress disorder in my medical files.

Heh. I just typed “toast traumatic stress disorder”. Which is the dibilitating fear that the toaster’s going to explode, burn down the house, and devour everything one loves. Hey. It could happen. You don’t know.

So, my kid. She’s not doing well, emotionally. Ever since her preschool graduation last Tuesday, she’s been a basket case. Graduating made it click in her mind that something’s about to change and she’s going to be without her friends every day.

The day after graduation, one of her teachers had to be away due to a family emergency, which threw her for a huge loop. Never mind that, a week earlier, one of her classmates up and moved with no real notice. She was scheduled to move after the semester ended, but her family’s just … gone.

A list of breakdowns that have occurred over the past six days:

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I know I’ve told the story of how Clara Jane arrived in the world a bunch of times, but it seems like a good time to revisit it.  Jaelithe at MOMocrats prompted me to participate in Every Day is Mother’s Day, a public awareness campaign sponsored by CARE and The White Ribbon Alliance for Safe Motherhood to prevent maternal mortality around the world.

Every minute, a woman somewhere in the world dies in pregnancy or childbirth. I could have been one of those women, except for the sheer luck of being born in a wealthy country with access to just about every childbirth option available. Still, that almost wasn’t enough.

I wasn’t supposed to get pregnant in the first place. Thanks to years of undiagnosed polycystic ovarian syndrome, my reproductive system had taken a beating by the time I hit my 30s. A month before my 30th birthday, I was having such severe complications from the condition that I was down to my last treatment options before a hysterectomy.

Hearing that I would probably never have a child made me really, really want one all of a sudden. Also by sheer luck, I had eeny-meeny-miny-moed my way to the perfect doctor in my HMO, one who understood that PCOS is a real medical condition that can’t be fixed by a doctor telling a patient that she just needs to lose weight and everything will be okay. We worked on regulating my hormones and blood sugar levels (which are tightly related) before she sent me to an ob/gyn to see about making a kid.

The ob/gyn wanted to start me on Clomid immediately. Nah, I said. I wanted to give my body at least six months, maybe a year, before we started bringing in the big guns. I did go through acupuncture geared for managing gnarly ovaries.

Within four months – a month faster than the average for a “healthy” woman – I was pregnant.

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You knew it would happen sooner or later. Call it a mathematical inevitability. There’s got to be an equation that proves that the number of concerts I attend and my tendency to really want to pound gig clowns into the floor would eventually equal me, totally losing my shit at a show.

I swear Mr. Bouncer, I didn’t hit her. I just touched her harder than I should have.

On Saturday Brian and I headed to Champaign, Illinois, to catch The Bottle Rockets. A show that will be available on DVD in a few months, no less.

I don’t know what my deal is with Champaign, but I think I need to stay away from that town. Perhaps the U of Illionis blood that runs through the town can smell my U of Missouri rival blood and has it in for me. I didn’t even graduate, for God’s sake, so lay off of me, Champaign.

Last time I was in Champaign, I was stupidly weepy and sad at a Jeff Tweedy show.  This time, well, I finally had enough. I had had enough of people being inconsiderate, rude, and unable to disconnect for thirty fucking minutes.

I was surrounded by two yuppie couples at the show. The women – who I would love to physically describe, but I won’t because that’s not fair to anyone. I’m sure there are lots of people in their forties with bleached, straightened hair who wear giant sunglasses on top of their heads and carry shiny, metal-encrusted purses the size of my luggage who aren’t jackasses. Just like I’m sure there are many sports-obsessed men with giant heads planted directly onto their shoulders, clad in Ralph Lauren button-downs and shorts to keep it casual, who aren’t jerks.

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