So, I went to my first podiatry appointment yesterday. The whole thing started back in August when I threw my back out… putting Evelyn on the potty. (Yes, you read that right. Potty training = occupational hazard.) Nick decided maybe it was time for us to check out our feet—his and mine.
Turns out, I was right. My back pain on the right side is actually coming from my feet. Apparently, I’m “hypermobile,” which sounds like I should be running marathons, but in reality just means my feet collapse inward like a sad tent. And because I hate hot feet, I’ve been barefoot most days—something podiatrists apparently frown upon. Who knew toes could be so high maintenance?
I left the office strapped up like a Thanksgiving turkey: right foot taped, prewrapped (allergy friendly!), socked, and shoved into sneakers that used to fit just fine until my foot was manhandled into “correct” position. Oh, and inserts. In both shoes. Shoes that once said, “Ahhh, comfort,” now screamed, “Welcome to prison.”
Driving home, I was “uncomfortably comfortable.” You know, like Spanx: technically supportive, spiritually suffocating. I was white-knuckling the steering wheel, trying not to pull over, rip off the shoes, and blast the AC directly at my feet. Meanwhile, Evelyn was calmly watching Tinkerbell with her headphones on. She even dropped her fidget toy and, instead of screaming bloody murder, said, “Oh no!” I told her I’d get it at home, and she went right back to fairyland like an actual regulated human being. My three-year-old was handling the car ride better than I was.
And that’s when it clicked: she and I are basically in the same boat.
Evelyn’s been battling this open sore on her face for two months (doctor checked it, don’t panic). She picks at it when she’s overstimulated—especially at bedtime when slowing down feels impossible. Finally, I figured out a system: a silicone chewing straw after brushing teeth, then swapping to a small chewable pop-it once the lights go out. Three days in, she’s asleep in 30–40 minutes, not picking, and actually soothing herself.
Meanwhile, I’m 40-something, perimenopausal, taped up like a football player, and still can’t self-regulate. The hot-feet thing has gone from quirky to crisis. Anxiety, overstimulation, sensory overload—it all starts in the feet.
And then there’s Nick. To really spice things up, my husband is rolling through life unmedicated at the moment because apparently the cost of staying regulated now comes with a luxury tax! So here we are: taped feet, chewed pop-its, unmedicated brains, and one toddler who’s apparently winning the regulation Olympics.
Lesson of the week? Parenting in your 40s is a completely different sport than in your 20s. The kids might be small, but the shoes are tighter, the hormones louder, and the patience thinner. And sometimes the only way through it is to admit: your toddler might actually be handling it better than you.
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