Coulrophobia….it’s no joke!

As I have previously mentioned, I have a bit of OCD which doesn’t necessarily take over my life but can certainly be annoying and distracting. One would think that that affliction would be bad enough, but no, I also suffer from Coulrophobia which is a fear of clowns... My fear is more commonly recognized by the masses than I previously thought and in a world filled with other crazies like me, it’s a comforting notion. Believe it or not I have met many people that simply hate clowns, just like me. I have never understood the appeal of them, even at children’s parties. I mean, what exactly is the attraction? Their painted white faces are scary. The big, floppy shoes, the red nose, the freaky orange hair…I just don’t get it.

I do try to steer clear of anything “clown like”. I don’t care for crazy clown movies, circuses, Italian theatre or rodeos! So you can imagine my surprise when, years ago, I was driving down Route 28. It was a beautiful summer day, with windows open, radio on. I looked in my rear view mirror and noticed a VW bug weaving in and out of traffic behind me. People tend to drive crazy on 28, so I simply stayed in the right lane and went back to singing and enjoying my trip to Kingston. The next time I looked in my rear view, what do you think was right behind me driving that VW? Yup, a full makeup faced, red nosed, orange haired clown! I can imagine that my eyes were as big as saucers. I envisioned that clown witnessing my panic stricken face and he began to laugh a sickly laugh which only convinced me further that all clowns are serial killers. The clown was following me, trying to chase me, trying to run me off the road. I threw my hands up knowing full well this was how I was meant to die!!  A freaky white faced, laughing circus clown driving me off the road in his VW bug!


Soon after, I was able to attend my nephew’s birthday party, as the freaky clown from Route 28 did not in fact, kill me but simply passed me on his way to…well, wherever it is, clowns weaving in and out of traffic are on their way to. But once again, I was faced with yet another clown dilemma. There was not a regular clown in attendance at the party but rather a face painter dressed as a clown. “Great” I told myself. “Now it’s going to want to touch me and my son”! Because I was terrified, my son would not partake in this socially acceptable, fun, birthday activity. He got upset because “mommy won’t do it”. I had no reason for my son to befriend said clown but I saw no need for him to be phobia ridden either. I sucked it up and with a shaking body, quivering lip and a Xanax down my throat; I allowed the clown to paint a garden of white daisies on my face. I knew I was testing my boundaries but with Mattie’s face lit up with excitement, I realized all the anxiety I was suffering was worth seeing that smiling little boy. Minutes later, he proudly displayed the dragon painted on his face. It was an important lesson for me. Avoid clowns at all cost unless you are in the midst of passing along a detrimental phobia to your child or being responsible for chaos where there ought not be any. To date, I am still petrified of clowns. I don’t think I will ever get over my phobia because the truth is, clowns are freaky little creatures and I am okay with that.

But looking back on that day, I just smile to myself. I know I needed to be the parent, putting my own anxiety and fear aside for a little boy who only wanted his face painted.

Empty Nester

My step-dad took all the ancient VHS tapes I had of Matthew’s early childhood and painstakingly put them on cd’s for my ex-husband and I. It’s a gift that I will always treasure. I finally had some time alone last night and decided that it would be a wonderful opportunity to take a stroll down memory lane. As I sat back and replayed glimpses of my little boys first birthday, his favorite crocodile xylophone, his red swing tied to the big oak out back, the stone pile he would play for hours on, flashbacks of the Teletubbies, visions of my former family and the red maple tree in my front yard that I loved so much, I was overwrought with pain and sadness. It sounds ridiculous that instead of seeing that miraculous little face on my TV and smiling and rejoicing at his existence, I began sobbing; uncontrollably. I have realized that when you can cry like that, in the presence of no one, you know it’s more than nostalgia beating up on you. It’s a force far greater.

It all came back to me…the pain, the guilt and the anguish of my 1^st marriage. I think it has less to do with who my ex-husband is as a person but more to do with the idea of the dream I so desperately tried to build, disintegrating before my eyes. I thought I would be married to the same man forever. I thought I would have more children. I thought I would grow old in that little house on the corner. And I thought the family I had grown to love as much as my own, would forever be at my side. Everything changes, this I know. Some by our own choosing and some by some predetermined bend in the road we hadn’t expected. But we are supposed to leave the past in the past, right? At times I don’t know how to leave things in the past when the face of my child, is my past. But without harping too long on all my mistakes or the insurmountable “what ifs” of my past life, I came to one overwhelming, wine induced conclusion. I was suffering from the empty nest syndrome. The problem is that, my son is only 12 years old.

The empty nest syndrome is usually characterized by your last child leaving home, for college, for marriage or any other amazing thing they are meant to experience. As I have mentioned before, my first child is my only child and although he is only 12 and still living under my roof, I feel with each passing day a surge of his independence that I am ill equipped to face.  I know how fast time passes when you have children. They go from diapers to college in a flash and I fear that I will come apart at the seams when my baby bird flies away. I so long for him to be that little boy again and although I know I cannot keep him from growing up, I wish more than anything I could. If nothing else, I wish I was better prepared for the wonderful things he has in store. I do my best to let him have his independence, to be the young man that he needs to be, but I am scared to death. When Matthew was little I was terrified that he would take a tumble down the stairs or run out in the road when I turned my back. Now I worry about some girl breaking his heart or him not being able to fulfill each and every dream that he desires. It’s a funny thing; bittersweet, actually. As a parent you want your children to grow up and live a life that you can be proud of; that they can be proud of.  It’s a parent’s way of knowing they did a good job in raising their children. But on the other hand, once Matthew flies the coop, so to speak, I am scared that I will no longer know who I am. I will always be his mother but my role will surely change. It’s changing now. He will not need me the way he did when he was younger and I fear I will not know my place in the world. Being a mother is all I ever wanted to be and in a way, I feel that title will be stripped from me. It’s simply a matter of time.

For now, I have put away the movies of my child. I am not ready for that stroll down memory lane. Maybe I will do it tomorrow, next week or even next year when the pain of  him growing up doesn’t sting so badly. I can’t help but think that this emotional need I have to keep Matthew with me is my own psychological malfunction that serves no purpose. I am convinced that surely as the sun will rise, my son will grow up, and maybe, just maybe, I will too.