Monday, January 28, 2013

How Dare You?

"Mom, could you please stop breathing so much?"

Honestly, I didn't think I'd have to deal with half of this stuff until Adelaide was a teenager.  Or, in Derek's mind, until she was in college; he's still holding out for a raging awkward phase that will last until she graduates high school.

Last week at the supper table she announced that she has two boyfriends, but hey, it's okay- one is in India and one is in Iowa.  I reflexively started to jump out of my chair, preparing to administer the heimlich on Derek, but there was no need- he wasn't choking; on the contrary, his face was set and stony.

This week, however, she's focused on me- specifically, on me breathing.  I put that word in italics because every time it comes out of her mouth it sounds italicized.

"Do you have to breathe like that?"

"Why are you breathing so much right now?"

"I can't sit next to you anymore if you're going to keep breathing."

My first reaction, of course, was a snarky comment on how I would be happy to stop respirating, and was there anything else I could do to accomodate the princess?

After the second or third comment, however, I was reminded of my childhood best friend and how she frequently talked about how much she wanted to smother me with a pillow the morning after sleep-overs.  Apparently I'm one of those creepy mouth breathers.

I then remembered a visit to my allergist in elementary school and hearing him talk about how my nasal passages are chronically swollen, which obstructs air flow, and how there's pretty much nothing I could do about it.  I'm taking that diagnosis with a grain of salt, though- this is the same man who, after making a lovely grid of pinpricks that quickly morphed into hundreds of hives (you know, because I'm apparently allergic to nearly everything) had the nerve to lie and tell me that the cream the nurse was slathering on my back would soothe the flaming, maddening itch that was threatening to take over my sanity.  All I wanted was a couple sets of well-filed fingernails raked down my back, but no- I got a tube of glorified Jergens lotion.


So yes, perhaps I do breathe a bit more deeply or loudly or whatever than the average bystander.

Then I saw something about misophonia, and decided instead that our daughter is suffering from a neurological disorder.

Because the problem can't be me.


  1. I know it isn't THAT comforting, but I clearly remember being enraged by mom being overly expressive with her eyebrows to what I thought to be excessive erratic finger tapping... Thankfully, mom didn't suffocate me in my sleep and now I'm almost a normal human being!

    1. I clearly remember you being enraged over almost everything, but "overly expressive with her eyebrows"? That is crazy. And just think- Charlotte may be just like you! Muahahahahaha!

    2. Kelli, mom's eyebrow raising drove me crazy too! You're not alone, although she only will raise one when she's mad.

  2. I read a blogger who's son has misophonia. Let's hope that's not the issue with Adelaide :-)

    You'd better stay ready with that heimlich though. Boys are beginning to play a large role in Emma's conversation, and so are all the other yucky gossip/mean-girl stuff that goes along with girls discovering boys. The only saving grace is that the boys are still several years away from understanding what the heck the girls are on about :-)

    1. I can't even imagine. At least you have an ongoing conversation with Emma, though, right? Better for you to hear about all the stuff she's starting to go through than to be in the dark.

  3. Oh, my, and she's not even a teenager yet. When my oldest was a teenager she was embarrassed that I existed, which was only fair because I felt the same way about *my* mother when I was a teen.

    I only heard about misophonia a few months ago, and concluded I had it. Now that I've read your link, I think maybe I have hyperacusia. But really it's probably just perimenopause.


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