When I was pregnant with my eldest, I had a scare that required going to the ER to get checked out. I remember telling myself that if only my baby would live, I would never worry again about anything. Thankfully, everything was just fine. And not surprisingly, this was not the end of me worrying, but the beginning.
What is truly amazing is that my primary worries seem to have gotten narrower and narrower with time. I have moved from worrying about whether or not a child would survive, to whether they would ever speak or walk, to worries that are much more mundane but every bit as real.
I wish I had some of the perspective that I had when my children are smaller. They are both healthy, thriving kids, who attend wonderful schools and have so many caring adults in their lives. They both speak. They both walk. They have no major chronic illnesses. And yet, I still find myself awake at night, worrying about things that never would have occurred to me a decade ago.
Will my creative, quirky daughter survive middle school?
Will my artistic, curious son be shunned because he doesn't like to play most sports?
Will my child who is an abysmal speller conquer this at some point in life?
Will my child who is a reluctant reader ever grow to love reading by themselves?
Am I giving my children enough independence?
Am I giving them too much?
Am I worrying enough about the important things?
Am I worrying too much?
But I think that probably part of parenting children is making peace with the fact that worrying will change and morph based on the stage of life, but will never truly end. And that may be a small price to pay for this amazing journey.
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