Mom and the Art of Worrying

I never used to understand why my mother worried so much.

Growing up, I was forced to endure countless cautionary tales about the latest danger, disease, disaster. One false move and I was surely toast. To this day, I know that if it is in the news and it is a potential threat, I will get a detailed report about it one way or another. According to my mother, there is E-Coli on my counters, Salmonella in my raw cookie dough, ten choking hazards in my junk drawer, and a pedophile around every corner.

Okay, so I'm exaggerating. A little.

As a teenager, I rolled my eyes about her worries; infallible, impenetrable force field that I believed myself to be. I threw caution to the wind. I snuck out my bedroom window at midnight to meet my high school sweetheart. I broke the speed limit and did so without a seat belt. I smugly licked the bowl of uncooked brownie mix whenever I got the chance.

I grew up... and then, I had kids.

Now, let me be clear: I do not now, nor did I ever, worry the same way my mother worries. Perhaps that is because my mother does the fretting for me for the stuff she considers life-threatening. Bomb scares, toy recalls, pandemics... she's got me covered. I receive her phone calls and emails regarding these daily cautions with an open heart- it's part of how she goes about the business of loving me. I always wear my seat belt, and I try very, very hard not to break the speed limit. I still lick raw brownie mix though. Sorry, Mom. I obviously consider that a good healthy spoonful of it is worth a touch of Salmonella.

I think the world sees me as a pretty relaxed, breezy parent... and in truth, I am. I don't spend my days twitching about much. But when I turn out the light and settle into my pillow at day's end, that is when the demons find me. Sometimes I have to sit up and shake my head vigorously. I'm trying to dislodge the worries before they follow me to sleep.... because if I don't shake them, I will dream them. My worst fears become my most paralyzing nightmares.

My latest: I am at the beach, and have set Tucker in his infant seat among many friendly-looking strangers. (Glaring Parent Mistake #1). I leave him there for just a moment while I wrangle the rest of my family (Glaring Parent Mistake #2). My head is turned for nary ten seconds, but when I turn back, Tucker is gone. At first, there is a slight quickening of my heart as I tell myself it has to be a mistake; I simply forgot where I put him. Then, as I process the fact that he is nowhere to be found, sheer panic stabs my chest as I begin to ask the strangers if they saw anything, if anyone picked him up. Everybody says no, sorry, we didn't see anything... and I think- HOW COULD NOBODY SEE?! I begin to shout his name, then scream it, all the while running aimlessly up and down the beach, knowing he is just a baby and of course cannot respond. I scream at the top of my lungs, "TUCKER!" but there is barely a sound coming out of my throat. Somebody took my baby, somebody has him, he's gone from me forever, and I can't turn back the clock, I can't... all I can do is imagine his bright, wide blue eyes looking up in fear, wondering where I am...

I awaken with a shudder and slowly realize I am in my own cozy bed next to my sleeping husband. My beloved Tucker is in his crib in the very next room; I can hear his snuffly breaths as he shifts in slumber. Relief and sadness envelop me. Relief -because he is here thank GOD, he is safe and warm and barely fifteen feet from me... and sadness- because my dream could happen, has happened, to the best of parents. And there is no escaping the fact that the more you love, the more you stand to lose.

I was so willing to risk life and limb when I was a typical, miserable teenager. The happier I got, the less appealing skydiving became. And when my children came into the picture? Let's just say you'll never again see a bungee cord tied to my ankle.

Yes, I am relaxed and breezy by day, but invariably I will run over the course of events at nightfall and berate myself for being so careless. How could I have left Addie on the porch alone for those two seconds it took to answer the phone? What was I thinking, letting Tucker sleep on his belly during his afternoon nap? Stan is by now weary of the times I come to him after one of my sleepless nights, making him promise he will be the last car to leave the intersection when the light turns green because I just had a nightmare about being broadsided. He'll nod patiently as I ask him once again to please promise never to let Addie cross the street without holding tightly to his hand. MAYBE, if he's good, Addie can cross solo when he's seventeen.

Funny how happiness can make you hold on so tight. My mother has been teased mercilessly for her worrying. She's been berated for it, told to let go a little. But how does one let go just a little? Worrying is my mother's way of holding on to her children, to her husband, to her whole world, to her happiness. I feel her holding onto me every day, whether I talk to her or not. I know she is there, searching ever-vigilantly for the latest crisis she will help me avert, and I thank God that someone is clutching me that hard. How lucky am I, to be held so tight? To be loved that much?

Parents say, "When you have a kid, you'll understand." We kids all rolled our eyes, every single one of us.

I look at my boys now, and I feel sick about the times I drove without a seat belt. I feel sick mostly because if I did it, that means they might very well do it too. There it is; my punishment for having done it in the first place. I put it into the world. I made it real for myself that smart kids can be awfully dumb sometimes. And like my mother before me, I will have no choice but to caution my children about it when they're teenagers, and hope they use their heads. I will have no choice but to sit in my bed waiting to hear the car pull in the driveway, waiting to breathe that sigh of relief knowing they are home safe and I can go to sleep now. And when they come to kiss me goodnight, I will smile and act sleepy and never tell them how I worried.

They'll know soon enough.

Addie

My son Addison can break your heart.

There is something truly magical about him, though I cannot explain exactly what I mean by that. I think you just have to know him. My neighbor Joe recently said, "That kid needs a theme song." If you know Addie, you know what he means. Addie is funny, quirky, and ultra-cool. He is his own man, with his own unique dance through life. I'll watch him as he leads his friends into a world of imagination, boundless in possibility. I wish I'd known someone like him when I was young. We would have been the best of friends.

Addie has always been extremely verbal. When he was not yet two years old, he turned to Stan and said, "Daddy, could you lift me up onto the counter because I want to grab three apples and give them to Mama so she can juggle them."

That ought to give you some idea of what we're dealing with here.

He is dedicated to the pursuit of full disclosure; that is to say, he can explain his every emotion, yours too; he assesses every situation and reports on it throughout the day; he doesn't miss a trick. He has a rare gift for communication. A cupcake isn't just "good", it's "delectable". If he can't be pulled away from an art project, it's because he's "putting the finishing touches on it". And if he's sad and doesn't want to play, he will explain he's "feeling fragile". At a party last month, the neighbor kids were playing too rough in the bounce house. He came to tell me that they were "torturing and torturing" each other, and then announced that he was going to let them know their folly. He marched right over to the bounce house, stuck his head in the net opening, and began to reason with them in a slightly raised voice. None of them heard him of course, but it did not deter his efforts. I was his only listener (devoted mom that I am), and kept looking around to see if anyone else thought this was as precious as I did.

Nope. I guess they were all too busy watching their own little geniuses.

Is it just me, or does every mother do that- look around every five minutes to see if everybody noticed the adorable thing their kid just did? I admit it, I get that dumb look on my face- that idiotic mix of pride and love and disbelief- and glance around after every moment I deem noteworthy, be it miraculous or mundane. It's pathetic. I'll be at the playground watching him climb the jungle gym, and if he so much as utters a slightly precocious phrase, I'll glance proudly and furtively around... "Did you all hear THAT?!" Stan and I have both mastered the art of shameless offspring admiration, so when we're together watching our kids, forget it. It's out of control, because we'll simply glance at EACH OTHER for the appreciation. A fan club of two.

What always cracks me up is listening to Stan brag to the pediatrician. From the time Addie was a baby, Stan's unabashed pride was off the charts.

Two months old:

Doc: "So, is he holding his head up yet?"

Stan: (scoffing) "Is he holding his head up. HA!"

(Doc grabs the tiny fists and lifts. Baby's head lolls back lifelessly.)

Stan: (incredulous) "Well, THAT'S a first! Come ON, Addie..."

One year:

Doc: "Is he talking yet?"

Stan: (scoffing)"Is he TALKING YET."

Doc (to Addie): "How ya doin' there, buddy?"

Addie: (blank silence)

Stan: (incredulous) "Oh come ON, Addie! Doc, ya gotta believe me..."

I still think our pediatrician thinks Stan's a big liar, since it's the only place Addie has decided to clam up. He also still speaks to Addie a bit slowly, like he's Forrest Gump.

Strangely enough, one of my favorite things about Addie is watching him work his way through anger. From the time he was a toddler, he could take that angelic face, lower his chin, and glare up at you from under deeply furrowed brow. You would swear he was wishing you into the cornfield. You would find the sudden urge to mutter, "It's GOOD that you feel that way, Addie. It's REAL good. And tomorrow's gonna be a REAL GOOD DAY."

These days, the only time Addie displays any real moodiness is when he hasn't eaten for a while. Blood sugar plummets, and he becomes a bit unreasonable until we manage to get a little nourishment into his stubborn stomach. Last week the family went to Disneyland, and a swell time was had by all. But all the fun had delayed our midday meal, not to mention you seem to need a Fastpass for the lunch lines at peak hour. So there we were outside Soarin' over California after a long wait for food, trying to get our temporarily crabby Addie to take a bite of his burger so his mood would normalize. He wasn't having it- the burger, or our admonitions to eat it. He began to make quiet, idle threats, which he is an expert at: "I am not going to eat that cheeseburger, now or ever, Mama. I am going to go back to the car and sit there and not ride any more rides with you, Mama. I am going to squirt this ketchup in your eye, Mama." To which I always calmly reply, "No you're not, because you know what will happen if you do."

But this time, instead of mulling this response over and giving up, Addie looked at me, lowered that chin, wished me into the cornfield, and then it happened: his right hand came up into a fist in front of his face. He stared intensely at his own fist, and then I saw him slowly, oh so slowly and with great effort, lift his ring finger up. He stared at the picture he had created, and as he examined it he instantly realized: wrong finger. With equal effort, he put his ring finger back into the fist and then with great concentration began to raise the correct, offensive finger, all the while looking at me with a mixture of anger and sheer dread.

Before you judge the boy (or his parents) too harshly, you must know that the reason he knows this gesture, and its meaning, is because about a year ago he once used that finger to point to something. I told him we should always use our index finger to point, that putting up our middle finger all by itself was not nice. "Why?" he asked. "Because," I explained, "People will think you're telling them to, uh... go jump in a lake."

Which brings us to the burger moment.

Now I know I am supposed to instantly put him in the Designated Disneyland Naughty Chair for attempting to flip his mother the bird, but the look of consternation on his face- mixed with the great effort it took to muster the courage to lift his middle finger out of his tightly clenched fist- well, I burst out laughing. I had to turn my face away, because I didn't want him to see that I found this funny. I took a deep breath and tried to turn back to scold him, but there he was with his middle finger half-up, waiting to see whether he wanted to commit to the full, extended length of finger and perhaps suffer the consequences... and I lost it again. I simply couldn't contain my glee... or my love.

I hereby humbly apologize in advance if someday my boy Addie gives you the finger. You can blame me. Clearly I am a terrible parent and have inadvertently taught my son that this obscene gesture is just about the funniest thing in the world.

Every day, Addie provides me with another story... another moment I'll want to bottle up and preserve forever. Yesterday, he didn't want to go to school and thus was making our exit quite difficult. He ended up losing a star off his achievement chart, and he was heartbroken over this. It's very hard for me to punish him, because he cries just like I do; his lip quivers, he tries to be brave and hold it all in, and thus he can hardly speak through his tears. I put him in the car as he sobbed, telling him maybe he could earn a star back that evening by helping with dinner. These words of encouragement didn't seem to help, so I buckled his car seat and kissed his forehead goodbye. But he wouldn't let me go. He clutched me tightly, pulled me back to his tear-stained face, and sputtered out the words, "Mama... this... is... not... easy."

That's Addie- summing it all up so simply, so profoundly. I held him tight, and said simply, "I know." It sure isn't easy- these lessons learned, this life navigated. My son and I see the world through similar eyes. He feels the joy and the pain as deeply as I do. He reflects back to me the rawest and most wrenching emotions I possess. I'm not sure if I should thank him or punish him for this... but I do know one thing: I am so lucky to know him.

Birthday

In honor of my birthday, 41 Random Things About Me:

1. I love the smell of bus exhaust. Now why did I open with that one?
2. I dislike people with entitlement issues. Especially the ones who don't think they have to stand in line at the yogurt store like everyone else.
3. Speaking of yogurt, I am addicted. My favorite: vanilla and chocolate swirled together with so much graham cracker that the mixture resembles spackle.
4. I used to be a classical pianist, with a penchant for Chopin.
5. I play baseball better than many men do, and definitely do not throw like a girl.
6. I am obsessed with my sons' feet, which is unusual because I grew up not liking feet much at all.
7. Watching my husband swim the butterfly gets me hot.
8. I love the sound of clinking pool balls.
9. I am in search of the perfect slice of pizza, though I admit Casa Bianca comes pretty close.
10. My theatrical resume of shows I've turned down is more impressive than the one of shows I've actually done.
11. Every Christmas, I absolutely must watch every vintage Christmas special ever made. This has become easier and less embarrassing now that I have kids.
12. When I am almost done with a bar of soap, I take the remains and press it into the new bar of soap. This saves lots of money, or so I tell myself.
13. I love theme parks and rollercoasters, writing and receiving long letters in the mail, and getting a really good deep-tissue massage.
14. I was painfully shy in high school.
15. I believed in Santa until I was eleven. I still have a hard time accepting the truth.
16. I wore braces for three years in middle school, including a neck gear at night.
17. I have almost every letter or card ever sent to me pressed into binders in my garage.
18. I used to write long, elaborate fiction stories and read them to my roommate Bonnie when we lived in New York.
19. I hated living in New York.
20. I went through a rebellious period post-high school, wherein I dyed my hair purple, drove without a seat belt, and shoplifted a buttermilk donut.
21. I come from a long line of great debaters, and relish a good debate.
22. I used to pretend to be deaf in malls. I would make my friends sign to me. I also once trick-or-treated while pretending to be blind. I got a lot of candy that year.
23. When I was eight years old, I worshipped Stockard Channing.
24. "Felicity" is my favorite TV series ever.
25. I absolutely love my TiVo, and don't know how I ever lived without it.
26. I don't drink. Never really liked the taste.
27. My favorite subject in school was astronomy.
28. A high school boy once threw a can of baked beans at my head. I used my aforementioned talent for baseball to catch the can with one hand before it hit me. The group of boys he was with all laughed. This became known as "The Baked Bean Incident", and traumatized me for many years.
29. I once got my left middle finger slammed into a locker. It still lists slightly to the left because of this.
30. I have very long curly eyelashes, and thus have never used an eyelash curler.
31. I think they should bottle the smell of snow, and the smell of Pirates of the Caribbean.
32. My grandmother taught me the time step in the kitchen of her home in Conyngham, PA.
33. I love everything morning; the yawning, the smell of coffee, the newspaper, the cereal, eggs, toast, bacon, pancakes, scones or waffles, the snuggling in bed, the coziness.
34. If I am home, I am usually in my pajamas.
35. I have the best mother on this Earth.
36. I have three fathers, and it gets very confusing for people. Father #1: Bio Dad, who despite his best efforts didn't see himself rising to the occasion of parenthood, and split when I was three. Father #2: Dad, who adopted me when I was six, raised me, and helped shape me into the human I am now. Father #3: Jeff, my mom's current husband, who seems he was always in our lives and hearts.
37. I pick at my fingers, and have done so since I was four. Nasty habit, but hey- see #26. At least there's that.
38. My husband and I are both Geminis. He always says, "The four of us are having a swell time." Ain't it the truth.
39. The two most incredible days of my life are the days I gave birth to my two baby boys.
40. If anyone had told me when I was twenty, "In a decade, you will marry that guy you saw in Forever Plaid, then both of you will decide you don't really want to pursue musical theatre anymore, you will live in a beautiful house, have two sons, and never want for anything more than just being together"... I would have thought they were absolutely nuts.
41. I believe you never know what grand adventures await you, and you can never imagine the person you will turn out to be as a result. But if you are lucky, you will thank God for every twist and turn in the road, for it brought you to here. And here is a miracle.