It is written in to our genes, I am sure of it. Worrying from dawn to dusk about our children must be an obsessive compulsive behavior that is pre-determined in mothers by genetic factors. How else can I explain biting my cuticles off when my child got on the bike without training wheels for the first time and wobbled her way around the cul-de-sac while my husband stood on the curb cheering for her?
I cannot speak for others but worrying is almost a hobby for me. Some folks knit, read, putter around the garden, write blogs or cook for fun. I worry. If the President ever gives me an executive order to stop worrying for one day, I would be completely lost. What, in all that is holy, am I supposed to do with myself if I can’t worry?
My husband, on the other hand, is a fatalist and believes that the French “Que sera sera” is the right motto for child rearing. “The child will do what she is supposed to do and what she does do will shape who she will become” and “Let the children make their own mistakes and learn from them” are his favorite responses to my heart-wrenching laments of worry. “Stop worrying” he says as if it is a valve I can shut off at any time. Have you ever heard of anything more illogical? No wonder they say “Men are from Mars.”