Anna Lind Thomas - Im Not Ready for This: Everybody Just Calm Down and Give Me a Minute

Im Not Ready for This

2022 Anna Lind Thomas

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ISBN 978-1-4002-2208-7 (audiobook)

ISBN 978-1-4002-2207-0 (eBook)

ISBN 978-1-4002-2201-8 (TP)

Epub Edition March 2022 9781400222070

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022932782

Printed in the United States of America

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To Dad.

The two of us, always laughing.

Thick as thieves, you and me.

W hen I was writing my masters thesis, I got into an explosive fight with my thesis chair. That may seem odd, the thought of a student and professor, in a professional setting, going at it over how to measure cognitive dissonance. But there we were, like a couple of unhinged weirdos. I burst into tears unexpectedly, then quickly tried to reel myself in. My tears laid my vulnerability bare, and my professors shoulders slowly lowered from her ears. She softened, and we reconciled. When it was time to leave, she gave me a hug, and as I leaned in, the unspeakable happened. For reasons Ill never understand, I whispered softly in her ear, I love you.

The very second it left my lips I knew I had no choice but to drop out of school, glue on a beard, move to a quiet town, and hide under an ambiguous name like Pat Stephens. I mean, was I nuts? I respected her, sure, but she could be a real piece of work. Brilliant, unrelenting in her demands for excellence, and terrifying for no good reason. To say I loved her was a real stretch. The cringe ran so deep and hard, it kinked my neck and my limbs froze to ice.

She said nothing in return, just patted my back politely, and then watched me leave her office, my neck kinked at a 90-degree angle, limping, rigid, like an ice sculpture.

To say I wasnt ready to return to class the next day is an understatement. How could I look her in the eye again? But I somehow managed, detached and bubbly as if that erased the cringe from existence. It worked well enough, I guess. With her guidance, I eventually went on to write a thesis worthy of awards.

Now that I think of it, Ive never been ready for anything. Ive tried to recall a time when Ive walked into any situation prepared academically, emotionally, spiritually, or physically. Nothing comes to mind. Adult decisions, marriage, conflict, parenting, crows-feet, large pores, skinny jeans, hosting a dinner party... you name it, Im not ready for it.

Ive never, not once, been ready to go sleeveless. Or for my monthly period to arrive, even though my iWatch gives me several warnings. I wasnt ready for my daughter to start kindergarten, and dont even get me started on that one time I appeared on national TV in a blazer two sizes too small because I thought Id lose 20 pounds before the shoot. Oh Lord, I aint never ready!

But somehow, miraculously, God finds a way to push me forward. Feels super rude, to be honest, as I kick and scream, weep, and breathe into a paper sack. But the more Im pushed, the more Ive had to rely on God for a miracle. A reminder that I can accomplish anything I set my mind to while simultaneously recognizing I cant accomplish anything at all.

Every huge moment of my life, something has given me a push. In fact, I probably wouldnt be alive today if I wasnt, literally, violently pushed. Its a sliver of time in my life I think of often. A reminder, or a metaphor maybe. There is something pushing us forward all the time, and its wise to let it happen.

I dont remember many of the details, other than the shock of it and the chaos swirling around me. The screaming and running, the confusion and fear. I can still see my mom running toward me. I was surprised to see her; I usually walked home with my friends. Her eyes looked afraid. It was just one tiny second, but I thought maybe she was running to hug me. But she pushed me, hard, and I flew back several feet. Skidding across the gravel, my elbows skinned raw. The picture I had painted at school, the one I held in my hands, caught the air like a paper sack, flipping and twirling above me. I heard screams, saw people running. My classmates mother, Jody, scooped me into her arms and carried me away. I dont remember anything else.

But my mom remembers it vividly. And thirty-four years later, she says, shes still in shock it ever happened.

I was in the first grade. We lived in the country, outside of a small Nebraska town. I attended Stull School, a tiny three-room schoolhouse. Its hard to imagine tiny schoolhouses still standing today. A few years ago, I drove by my beautiful old home on the hill. I was disappointed to see Stull converted into a day care center. The playground was now gated, and the building looked shabby and sad. Cheap, beat-up toys were strewn across what looked like a prison yard. The same stretch of grass where I used to run free with my friends.

The day started just like any other day. Mom helped me get dressed, comb my hair, and brush my teeth. I had a little breakfast, and when it was time, she helped me tie my shoes and wrap my backpack across my shoulders. I would walk to school with my friend and her older sister, so I waited at the front door for them to appear into view. After a few moments, I saw them outside my house on the gravel road, pausing to see if Id join them. I yelled goodbye and ran out to meet them; Mom waved me off at the front door.

But what made this day peculiar is what happened later in the afternoon. On a typical school day, I would walk home with those same friends, and about a half hour beforehand, Mom would prepare a little snack for when I walked through the door. But on this day, while she began to rustle up ingredients, she was struck with an immediate sense of urgency. It wasnt a gentle, inner knowing. Not a little nudge, or whisper in her ear. It was an inner bullhorn: I was in danger, and she needed to run.

If you were to ask her what it felt like, the only word she can conjure is robotic. As if something, or someone, had taken over her body, and she was left to observe, confused and concerned. As someone else grabbed her keys. As someone else started the car. As someone else pushed the accelerator, down, then up, then down the gravel road to the tiny three-room schoolhouse where children trickled from its doors.

She spotted me immediately, holding the picture I painted for her that day, making my way home. Mom felt pushed from her car, not given the chance to shut off the engine or close the drivers-side door. She ran toward me, across the street, as a large dump truck gunned it in reverse. Thats when I saw her. I lit up, until I saw her eyes. She was afraid, but why? Then she pushed me. I remember the pain and a feeling of betrayal. Then a woman scooped me into her arms and ran toward the school so I wouldnt witness the truck crash into my mom, knock her to the ground, and roll over her entire body.