Mom Means Worry

 

Last week, a friend of mine, who is newly pregnant with her first child, innocently asked me at what point in pregnancy she would stop worrying.  Her question threw me.  Initially, I couldn’t fathom ever worrying when your child is still tucked safely inside you, incapable of choking on a Barbie shoe, chasing a ball into the street, or falling off the monkey bars at recess.  But then it all came back to me—the panic about miscarriage, genetic abnormalities, pre-term labor, complications during delivery, and so forth and so forth.  And that oh-so-common worry about how something as massive as a baby’s head can fit through such a tiny hole without causing permanent emotional and physical injury, not to mention the stressful decision of whether you’d prefer to have a stranger jab a needle in your spine or just feel every moment of delivery.  Pregnancy is filled with worry.

But even once I remembered that, I still couldn’t answer her question.  What was I supposed to say—that once her baby was born, she would wake him every hour for the first few weeks just to confirm that he was still breathing?  That she would literally OBSESS over the color, frequency, and texture of her newborn’s poop?  Or that she would, at some point, call the after-hours pediatrician number so fraught with worry over something that turned out to be as simple as a burp?  She probably wouldn’t have believed me if I had told her that.  Or if she did, she might then ask me when the worry does stop, and that answer, as you all know, is never.

By the time her child is a toddler, I suspect she will no longer worry about the contents of diapers as much as she will worry over the fact that everything in the normal household is a potential deathtrap for an inquisitive toddler.  Once she gets over that, she will worry that her preschooler is homesick when he first starts school.  And as soon as her child starts elementary school, she will suddenly find herself overwhelmingly worried about school shootings, even while complaining to her parents about the excessive security involved in entering the school building. 

Last night, I started to worry about paying for college for my kids.  And that led me to worry about them drinking too young, walking home alone in the dark after a late lecture, or making bad decisions at frat parties.  My oldest is seven.  I eventually fell back asleep, comforted by the thought that with the way I’ve been parenting, it’s possible my kiddos won’t even get into college, let alone opt to attend rather than to join a circus.  I did notice, however, that my husband slept like a baby.  I’m pretty sure he has never worried about how he would get all the kids out of their car seats if the minivan plunges into an icy ravine during an accident.  It’s also a safe bet that he has never considered the possibility that our toddler’s ability to eat six pieces of toast in one sitting, while still weighing 20 pounds, is evidence of a parasite.  And I guarantee he’s never tried to figure out if plastic party silverware contains BPA.

That observation led me to my conclusion, that being a mom means worry.  Lots of it.  Some valid, some ridiculous, but no matter how fleeting each concern is, the worry never ends.  Still, you can’t say that to a pregnant woman any more than you can tell her that the baby weight won’t really just fall off if you breastfeed.  She’ll figure it out for herself soon enough.