Print ArticleDo we ever stop worrying about our children? Even when they grow up and leave the nest we still find it difficult to break the worry habit.
It's not like we can go into their room anymore and make sure they haven't kicked off the covers, check to see that they are still breathing, or comfort them when they have nightmares. We can no longer be sure if they eat their vegetables or wear clean underwear. We can't even wait up until they come home safely, because we never know when or if they decide to go home.
Right after my son was born I childproofed my whole house. Everything that was once readily accessible was now about as easy to get to as the Hope Diamond. I put padlocks on all the cabinet doors, a combination lock on the toilet seat, and chains around the hot water taps. Whenever I needed an aspirin for a headache I had to climb a 40 foot extension ladder to get it down from the attic.
In spite of all this homeland security, he still managed to hurt himself on a weekly basis. Once he pulled a hot iron off the ironing board on top of his little head...while I was ironing, he fell from a tree and broke his arm, hit his head on the corner of a table and had to get stitches, cut his little finger on a piece of glass (he found it in the neighbor's yard. I vacuumed my yard every day to prevent something like this from happening.) He got hit in the nose with a baseball, and pulled a hamstring while playing football.
This doesn't include all the minor injuries like skinned knees, sprained ankles, chapped lips, etc. The kid was a walking accident. Whenever he was out of my sight playing in the yard I was a nervous wreck. It was like waiting to get goosed in the ribs. I knew that at any moment he could be injured. And whenever I heard him yelling I always went into a panic. If he got very quiet for a second or two I ran outside in search of him, certain that he had been kidnapped or had run away.
Every time he came rushing in through the back door I would run to him and twirl him around, checking for blood or broken bones. I would be like, "Omigosh, are you okay? Where are you hurt?" and he'd be like "Good Lord, Mom, I just stopped by for a cup of coffee on my way to work..."
Once they have lived away from home for a few years we begin to trust them to take care of themselves, to be careful, to eat right and wear clean underwear, but we never stop being a mother even though they don't need us as much anymore. Mother's worry, because worrying lets us know we're still needed. I suppose that's why we get dogs; to help fill up the void left by our grown-up children.
I've transferred a lot of the worrying to my dogs. Shadow is now two, and Sheba is almost a year old. In dog years they're old enough to go to school. But I still insist on treating them like little puppies that haven't yet been weened.
I worry when they don't eat. I worry if they are too hot, too cold, if they have water, did they spill it, should I go outside and play with them, are they lonely? Why did we have to put them outside? Why couldn't they just continue to live inside with us.
"Because they're both the size of Shetland Ponies," Hubby explains for the hundredth time.
"But they keep whining and barking, so they must be unhappy out there," I argue.
"Well, it's no wonder they keep doing that. If you brought me a treat every time I whined I'd keep doing it too," he snaps.
Quite frankly I think I've spoiled them. I'm treating them like my children, or maybe I treat the children like my dogs? Either way I still worry. That's what mothers do.
It's not like we can go into their room anymore and make sure they haven't kicked off the covers, check to see that they are still breathing, or comfort them when they have nightmares. We can no longer be sure if they eat their vegetables or wear clean underwear. We can't even wait up until they come home safely, because we never know when or if they decide to go home.
Right after my son was born I childproofed my whole house. Everything that was once readily accessible was now about as easy to get to as the Hope Diamond. I put padlocks on all the cabinet doors, a combination lock on the toilet seat, and chains around the hot water taps. Whenever I needed an aspirin for a headache I had to climb a 40 foot extension ladder to get it down from the attic.
In spite of all this homeland security, he still managed to hurt himself on a weekly basis. Once he pulled a hot iron off the ironing board on top of his little head...while I was ironing, he fell from a tree and broke his arm, hit his head on the corner of a table and had to get stitches, cut his little finger on a piece of glass (he found it in the neighbor's yard. I vacuumed my yard every day to prevent something like this from happening.) He got hit in the nose with a baseball, and pulled a hamstring while playing football.
This doesn't include all the minor injuries like skinned knees, sprained ankles, chapped lips, etc. The kid was a walking accident. Whenever he was out of my sight playing in the yard I was a nervous wreck. It was like waiting to get goosed in the ribs. I knew that at any moment he could be injured. And whenever I heard him yelling I always went into a panic. If he got very quiet for a second or two I ran outside in search of him, certain that he had been kidnapped or had run away.
Every time he came rushing in through the back door I would run to him and twirl him around, checking for blood or broken bones. I would be like, "Omigosh, are you okay? Where are you hurt?" and he'd be like "Good Lord, Mom, I just stopped by for a cup of coffee on my way to work..."
Once they have lived away from home for a few years we begin to trust them to take care of themselves, to be careful, to eat right and wear clean underwear, but we never stop being a mother even though they don't need us as much anymore. Mother's worry, because worrying lets us know we're still needed. I suppose that's why we get dogs; to help fill up the void left by our grown-up children.
I've transferred a lot of the worrying to my dogs. Shadow is now two, and Sheba is almost a year old. In dog years they're old enough to go to school. But I still insist on treating them like little puppies that haven't yet been weened.
I worry when they don't eat. I worry if they are too hot, too cold, if they have water, did they spill it, should I go outside and play with them, are they lonely? Why did we have to put them outside? Why couldn't they just continue to live inside with us.
"Because they're both the size of Shetland Ponies," Hubby explains for the hundredth time.
"But they keep whining and barking, so they must be unhappy out there," I argue.
"Well, it's no wonder they keep doing that. If you brought me a treat every time I whined I'd keep doing it too," he snaps.
Quite frankly I think I've spoiled them. I'm treating them like my children, or maybe I treat the children like my dogs? Either way I still worry. That's what mothers do.
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