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.