How Paw Patrol PJs Instigated a Mental Break Down

I come from a long line of, putting it mildly, selective detail necessitaters. Or, spoken more plainly, control freaks. Having things just as I like, when I like, is something that gives me room to breathe and helps me feel calm. I’m not particular in every part of my life, just some (ok most). This vice, of needing to feel the unmistakable weight of the reigns in my palms, has manifested itself in an eating disorder, social reclusion, and my presence being nothing less than a pain in the rear. I thankfully married a saint, and he has worked miracles on my mental health by pointing me toward truth and presenting me with grace, all while patiently enduring my insistence on having things my way, yet refusing to give in to my tantrums. I confess, they occur. But as of today, my control freakishness is predominantly displayed in the aesthetic of my surroundings. Let me be clear, this is not just pertaining toward the color of paint on my walls or the decor of my coffee table. The reach of my need to have things appear a certain way, spans from my dish gloves to the pajamas I dress my children in before I kiss them good night. This, as you already know, is where our story begins.

My grandmother has been a gift giver since before I had the capacity to remember, and I am certain, before I was conceived. I, being her granddaughter, was obviously on the receiving end of many benevolent gifts. Visiting her was like a week long shopping spree, and Christmas and birthday times were absurd. I loved it. Now, I am grown, and along my way to obtaining this title, I developed a much more curated preference for the things that are allowed to share the same roof covering as I do. I don’t like “chotchskies”, knik knaks, and general dust collectors, and I take issue with brands and companies using me and my off spring as walking advertisements. No thanks, Mickey. You can stay off my back. And front. So when my grandmother brought a generous Christmas gift of Paw Patrol pajamas for my kids, I white knuckled through the unwrapping, and I think I succeeded in forming an appreciative smile, though I can’t be too sure it didn’t look more like I was suffering from gassy intestines. Despite their squeals of delight, I plotted my mysterious disappearance of these PJ’s. It would be quick, painless, and never spoken of again. This was not the case.

I succeeded in squirreling those tasteless, polyester blend (the kind that pill and get all bumpy after they go through the dryer) pajamas into the back of my Subaru and had set into motion the master plan of donating them to any organization apart from Goodwill (because I’m picky about where I bring my donations to as well, apparently. But seriously, Good will is the worst.). But alas, that same night, my children requested to don the unpaid paw patrol marketing, and I found myself in a bind. Do I lie to my kids? Or come clean and tell my son and daughter where their pajamas are and what my intentions were with them? I did the latter. And instantly regretted it. The tantrums and tears that ensued were not mild, and my patience was not a sufficient supply to carry me through it. When all was said and done, and we each had digested a heavy dose of trauma, I caved and I retrieved the infamous pajamas from the car. I was fuming, particularly at my grandmother’s generosity. This was, after all, her fault. Wasn’t it? I couldn’t stoke the flames of my fury enough to burn away the niggling feelings of responsibility and conviction for what had just occurred. What was the crime in these pajamas again? Why was my grandmother’s thoughtfulness such a sin? I knew, deep within my tight, disturbed, gut, that I was not right. Not right in the head, perhaps as well, but just generally, wrong. I stuffed my children into their new, beloved, jammies, and sat in defeat, feeling as though I’d lost a battle, not against my children, but the creators and marketers of Paw Patrol. I felt their reach, and I felt utterly out of control. Out of control of my emotions, my relationships, my home. Out of control of our WARDROBES. After tucking my kids in and begrudgingly wishing them a good nights sleep, I crept to my own room, and cried. I didn’t understand why this was so hard for me, but now, a year later (yes, this was a year ago) I can see far more clearly what was happening. Control is something we need to feel if we are to feel safe. Maybe we don’t always need to be the ones in control - I would far rather have the pilot man the plane that I am traveling on than take it into my own inexperienced hands - but there needs to be a sense of it. If the plane starts to abruptly nose dive, I wouldn’t be cool with it. The feelings of being out of control ebb and flow to this day in my life, but I’m finding, more and more, that the realization that I am NOT in control of many/most aspects of my life but that the same One who whispers assurances to the trusting sparrow and lily, is also manning my plane, is a relief and a blessing. It is a salve that can penetrate even the deepest aches. Despite my distractedness, He is also whispering those same assurances to me. Have you ever had a Charlie horse? Those killer calf muscle cramps that make your whole leg seize up and hurt like a mother? Your muscles are flexing and gripping with all they can muster, but they’re out of control. If you’re unfortunate enough to be swimming unsupervised when one of these bad boys sneak attacks you, then you could sink and die. My whole body and brain has been in a Charlie horse state for as long as I can remember. Gripping and flexing so hard in an effort to feel in control. But I’ve been drowning. And what’s worse, the very method that Ive thought has been my best effort to maintain control in my life has been the thing that’s caused me to sink like a rock. I’m slowly massaging out those exhausted muscles in my spirit and soul, and hoping to see blood flow return to parts of my being that, by all estimations, should be dead at this point. I hope you too, by peering into this window of my humanity, can perhaps notice and soften the grips you’ve been clenching too long in your own life. I still don’t like paw patrol pajamas, but thankfully, my kids can wear them now with out making me cry.