She cannot resist my biggest fear.
We’re on the subway and I’m freaking out on the inside. I feel sick and overwhelmed. I don’t think I could stand up if I wanted to. My head gets foggy at a fast rate paralleled to my heartbeat. Hostile faces – I swear they are- surround me.
If we transfer at the next stop we will pass buskers. My daughter loves buskers. If we stay on one step longer we can push through and avoid contact with anyone. That is the beauty with living in a notoriously impersonal city; you can get away without having to make small talk.
But the kid loves small talk, she loves meeting new people, she is as she proudly describes herself: a people person. We get off at the stop where she can gleefully follow the music and give the player some change. This time, she is surprised by a balloon flower and she is ecstatic. Her happiness is contagious and distracts me from the tightening in my chest and the tears welling in my eyes for no real reason other than, this is what happens when I go outside.
She is happy. So I’ll keep doing these things to myself. It is hard raising an extrovert.
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