“Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, it empties today of its strength.”
― Corrie ten Boom
“Worry Wart” was my middle name. I was born to worry. As a matter of fact, worrying was my main reason to become a parent. Parenting, I thought, was the perfect excuse to worry for every little thing.
Worry if the baby’s healthy. Worry if the child gets hurt. Worry if they’ll make friends and do well in school. Worry if my worrying is borderline psychotic and thus raise a serial killer with an unoriginal Modus Operandi.
That would be lame. Not even book rights. Oh my God, so much to worry about and so little time!
But like sleep and quiet moments, I soon learned that there is really no time to worry with kids. Shit just happens – regardless.
So I learned how to prepare.
There’s a distinct difference between worry and preparation. True, preparation is pretty much taking precaution on nothing more than an assumption; but to worry was just – immature. To give into it, gets you nowhere and actions based on it brings nothing but trouble. Just the thing worry was trying to avoid.
Ask anyone what they’re worried about and basically what they want to say is, “I’m worried that we’re gonna die.”
I didn’t want to worry to the point of becoming one of those moms. You know, the ones who are like, “Life? Oh no, that’s too dangerous for my children and I’m far too busy for that.”
It’s amusing how the modern mother became so irrational when the world became more accessible. They wipe everything clear of germs, pluck their children out of every challenging situation, fight their kids fights for them and then sit them down to a cardboard box of Chicken McNuggets because they forgot to pack a snack.
Their kids can’t eat fruit but they’ll eat mystery meat from a clown.
Okay, hungry children are demonic. Over time, we’ve accumulated a mountain of lunch coolers and water bottles to make sure my kids don’t “turn”. Our pantry is single-serving snack central and can city. All that’s missing is a Milky Way candy bar and we’d be ready for James Franco.
In all the years of outings with boys who are convinced we will resort to cannibalism when the subway stops, I’ve learned to be prepared.
While I can’t say that I never worry, I’m certainly not a wart anymore.
So, what are you worried about?