an admission of complete wussiness.

An earthquake woke me up last night, and there was another this morning. They were both in the mid 4 range - the first felt like the dog was vigorously scratching himself on the bed, thus making the whole thing shake; the second just felt like a dizzy spell until I noticed some of our dangling decorations swaying and then it felt like the house was bobbing in the ocean. 

As a born and bred Southern California girl, I'm supposed to play it cool. I'm supposed to love these things and equate them with roller coasters. I'm supposed to laugh at and openly mock out-of-towners who are bewildered when the ground tremors. And I play the part most of the time. When we had an earthquake in Virginia I truly did find it hilarious when, immediately after it happened, newscasters were seeking out Californians to verify if that was, indeed, one of those "earthquakes" of lore. 

Virginia 2011 Earthquake: We Will Rebuild
Photo borrowed from here.

But the truth is this: I am terrified of earthquakes. They fill me with dread and too much adrenaline. My overactive imagination sees a gaping chasm opening up in my own house, swallowing my family. Then, when I calm down a bit I imagine more realistically that our house will completely collapse and become rubble. Optimistically, I envision all of us cowering under the one doorjamb that remains standing. After the quake last night, I remained awake for some time thinking about the logistics of losing all material possessions when one has a baby. We'd need a bottle, plenty of milk, diapers. I tossed and turned and briefly considered researching disaster relief organizations just to confirm that someone could hook us up in a pinch. I tried counting sheep to get back to sleep, but the louts kept jumping at me instead of peacefully gliding over a low fence in a distant lea. Even my subconscious was in shambles from a little rumble.

I leave you with a sweet little anecdote from my childhood. It was 4:30 in the morning on January 17, 1994 (thanks, wikipedia!). Skeeter - my dog who slept with me each night and looked remarkably like Splinter - started barking and hopping around the bed. Then an earthquake struck, and my waterbed (yeah!) sloshed and swished and my door rattled. A few seconds later, my mom came into my room to make sure I was okay and to comfort me. My dad, assigned to check on my sister, instead sprinted out of their room in his skivvies, expressing deep concern for...his guitar. And he has never lived it down. 

Don't worry, both the guitar and my sister were totally fine.

I'd love to know what turns you into a wuss. Or your favorite natural disaster. Or about your parent trying to save an inanimate object.