Well, that's just not in my genetic makeup. Worry is my go-to response.
I worry every time I get on a plane, order something new for breakfast, leave the kids at their school and hear my phone ring after 9 PM. (No one calls with good news after nine.)
When I find a bump on my skin I immediately worry it's cancer. Never mind that I just slapped a mosquito dead in that exact spot moments earlier. I'm sure I'm a goner.
So it's only natural that I've worried every step of the way of having my two boys. Actually, make that every half-step.
Earlier this year my oldest son Jake was admitted to the hospital (justified worrying - yes, I can tell the difference). When he was finally home I asked my mom when it would all get easier.
She looked at me like I was nuts and said the truest words about parenting that I've heard yet: "Having kids is a life sentence."
Oh my god.
The joy, the fear, the hope, the craziness, the pride and maybe most of all, the worry, will never, ever, EVER end. I could literally see the black hole of vulnerability stretching out ahead of me for (hopefully) decades to come.
I looked at my mom who was, and still is (in my completely unbiased opinion) the best mom ever. Her life had revolved around me and my brother. And even though we are now in our (choke) late 30s and early 40s, her emotions for us are just as raw as mine are for my very young kids. Our pain is still her pain. Our joys and accomplishments, still her bragging rights.
A life sentence.
One night when my oldest son was just an infant I called my mom to complain about the sleep deprivation. I bemoaned the fact that I was obviously the only person on the planet with a baby who couldn't learn to sleep for more than 90 minutes straight.
Her response was simple. "Yeah, it's awful. But this is the easy part. At least you know where your child is every night. Wait until they become teenagers."
A life sentence.
Okay. Deep breath.
I looked at my mom who was, and still is (in my completely unbiased opinion) the best mom ever. Her life had revolved around me and my brother. And even though we are now in our (choke) late 30s and early 40s, her emotions for us are just as raw as mine are for my very young kids. Our pain is still her pain. Our joys and accomplishments, still her bragging rights.
A life sentence.
One night when my oldest son was just an infant I called my mom to complain about the sleep deprivation. I bemoaned the fact that I was obviously the only person on the planet with a baby who couldn't learn to sleep for more than 90 minutes straight.
Her response was simple. "Yeah, it's awful. But this is the easy part. At least you know where your child is every night. Wait until they become teenagers."
A life sentence.
Okay. Deep breath.
I can deal.
I just need a place to unload it all.
2 comments:
I’m a fan! I love it, Jenn. As I sit here today with my puking kid, it's so nice to hear I'm not alone in my worrisome ways. Big kiss to you - Susan
Beepbeepbeep J-school buddy! Loving this new blog site for you....and can totally relate. Kudos and keep it up. Look forward to more. TCOY :)
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