I often wonder if it's pre-programmed in us. To worry. Like if it's a sleeping gene that is with us all through life, but doesn't actually start kicking in until the moment we become pregnant. Think about it. Before you found out you were pregnant, you didn't worry nearly as much (or let's be honest-- at all) as you immediately began to, the second that plus sign turned up on that pee stick. All at once, all of these worries popped into your head: I wonder how far along I am? When is the last time I had a drink? Did it hurt the baby? Sushi. Did we have sushi this month? Wait! I had a headache the other night...did I take ibuprofen? Tell me I didn't take ibuprofen....
Growing up, I always told my mother not to worry about me. Always. Mom! Don't worry. I'll be fine. Often, she'd remind how hurt I could have gotten had something I was doing had gone terribly wrong. I'd always tell her, "But it didn't. I'm fine." Then I would always hear a "But it could have" under her breath. And until I became a mother, I couldn't figure out what all of the fuss was about. Now I'm a mother of two incredibly fearless little boys and I worry. All. Of. The. Time. And "But it could have" is the way that a daily conversation is ended in this house.
I worry that my 3 y.o. will try to climb out of his top bunk in the middle of the night and if he doesn't hit his head on the ceiling fan, then surely he'll miss a rung on the ladder and fall. Breaking at least an arm. I play the whole scene out in my head. Often. Would I change out of my pajamas to rush him to the ER? Would my husband insist on coming? Or stay behind with the little one, as to not wake him? Would he think his cast was cool or never want to climb up to that new bunk again? I can usually talk myself down after the cast. Little boys think casts are cool right?
Then there's Bird. He's 16 months going on 4. He wants to do (and usually does) every little thing his big brother is doing. Bunk bed ladder? Check. Jumping on top bunk. Check. Climb up the slide at the playground? Check. The physical stuff he's got down. I've almost (repeat: almost) stopped worrying about him in this regard. What I can't stop worrying about is why he won't talk. We are talking (no pun intended) not even a peep. Sure, he'll babble once in awhile. Point and fuss when he wants something. He's even resorted to a few signs if he really wants something. Otherwise he's quiet as a mouse. Everyone tells me not to worry...that the poor kid doesn't get a chance to get a word in edge wise with his older brother around. And sometimes, I believe that (his brother started talking at 10 months and truly hasn't stopped since. I mean really. Sometimes we have to encourage quiet time just so we don't lose our minds). But other times, my extra only-for-mommies-worry-gene kicks into overdrive and I see a future for our Bird that no mother wants to imagine. I could go into more depth here, but if I start, I may not stop. And that's just not healthy for anyone.
So why do we do this to ourselves? Why can't we give ourselves a break and trust that we have taught our
kids right from wrong or that God wouldn't give us lemons knowing that
we didn't have the recipe for lemonade? As if we have nothing else to do but sit and jump into the deep end of the "What-If" pool? I wish I had an answer here, but I don't. I guess it's just because, from the moment we saw the little flutter of his heartbeat on the screen or saw the first glimpse of that slimy alien like creature (come on- you have to agree that they come out a little alien-esque!) we immediately went into protector mode and vowed - either silently or out loud- that we would never let anything happen to something so perfect. The problem with that is, if you never let anything happen to them...well, nothing will ever happen to them. So for now, I'm going to let go (if only a little)....and let God. 
