At the risk of sounding like a terrible mom, I'm gonna go ahead and say it... motherhood is exhausting and on some days even seems like a pain. Yup. Go ahead and cast every aspersion on me that you can think of.
But first let me clarify what I mean. Yes, chasing Mabel around now that she's doing her own version of crawling is physically exhausting. On Saturdays and Sundays when I don't have the angel who is the daycare provider to give Mabel her meals, yeah, I do think of the extra labor involved when I have to make the cereal and get the gross apricot- sweet potato substance set into a bowl and then into Mabel's mouth. But I don't hate doing these things. And the physical tasks required by motherhood aren't the exhaustion of which I'm speaking.
I'm instead referring to the constant worry that accompanies parenthood. Now, let me be clear with the caveat that I am a worrier by nature. No; scratch that--- I am an over- the- top, unbridled, no- holds- barred obsesser. It has taken me years to become even sort of okay with this facet of myself. I spent a good portion of my teen years trying to transform myself into a free- spirited, carefree, jocular young lady who couldn't give a shiz what went on. No luck. Then I tried the same pursuit in college. When I was tense and would start picking with my fingernails at the skin on my thumbs, or shaking my foot restlessly, I'd make myself stop and try mantras like, "You're not worried, and you're not a worrier, and this issue doesn't need to be worried about." I'm now 33 and am still up at night, fearing the ramifications of not having a working automatic car starter, and when I'll find time to buy white picture frames, and how I'll get that one pesky lamp shade to look straight. My dreams and nightmares still wake me nightly too, and it's a rare moment I can truly say I feel at peace. (Maybe when I'm getting a massage--- and now I'll worry about remembering to book one, and at which place, and on what day, and what will happen if I'm then late picking up Mabel.)
Eventually, maybe around my 28th year or so, I gave in. I figured out that I could meditate and work out and do yoga and have a glass of wine before bed and schedule "worry times" in the day (yup, one of the thousand books I read suggested it), but after all, I am a worrier. I'm hardwired to be so, and I need to give my mind and body a break and just let myself be. Because ironically, I'm making myself worry more about the fact that I can't calm down.
Well, parenthood has opened the can of worry worms in ginormous dividends. I spent approximately the first six weeks of Mabel's life incessantly nerved up about her very existence: how is it possible that I am in charge of another human? What if she chokes on her milk, on the bottle nipple, on air? What if she's allergic to milk, to the bottle nipple, to air? What if one of us falls asleep on her or near her and she is smothered? What if the marker J is using right now is toxic, and the air becomes poisoned? What if the bar on the stroller gives and she falls right out? What if the crib breaks? What if someone comes through her window in the night and steals her? What if she is blind or deaf and we don't know it? What if I can't EVER stop thinking about these things?
While I've simmered on some of the more egregiously far- fetched fears, I've found new ones as Mabel has grown. Yesterday I worried about what her day care provider would do if a masked man broke into the house and kidnapped everyone. And I worried about the wood in the floor-- what if Mabel licks it while crawling? Is the lacquer safe?
I used to entertain fears similar in their tragic nature (I've been to a couple docs and they call this type of worrying "catastrophizing" and have said it is a prevention mechanism-- a la 'If I worry about it, it won't happen') but these fears were always for myself or J or my other family members. I'd picture J on the rocks while fishing and a huge wave crashing over him, swallowing him up into the deep, dark sea and nobody being around to see or hear, and then nobody being able to find him, and me not even being able to tell the authorities where to look because I didn't know the exact fishing rocks. I'd keep myself up at night with these thoughts.
But worrying about Mabel is different, in that I feel that as her mom, and one of her main caretakers, I'm "supposed to" have these fears and make sure I "fix" everything for her, as well as prevent anything bad from befalling her. Intellectually, I know I can't. I can't predict or create ANYONE's future, my offspring or not. Why is that concept so hard to digest?
Just when I think I'm over a fear, a new one emerges. Last week, I was worried K wasn't making enough consonant sounds. Last night I was scared because it was the first time she ever rejected a food, pursing her lips tight and crying a little, as if to say, "Nooo! I hate this food!" I immediately turned that into a food allergy or a stomach issue.
I have decided that it won't do me or Mabel any good to be an incessant worrier. She needs to live her life, and me, mine. I'm not sure yet how I am going to minimize worries, but I know I have to try. It's funny how the happiest happenings in our lives can also create the most tension, stress, and anxiety. I suppose that means they're worth it.
No comments:
Post a Comment