Too Late

A few weeks ago, I saw a rerun of an old Gilmore Girls episode. Mother and 12-year-old daughter sat down in their favorite local diner after a terrible day and ordered a coffee to calm their nerves. The waiter/proprietor approached their table and pleaded with the daughter, "Don't drink this stuff! Please -- this is horrible for you. You're going to end up exactly like your mother." (The mother is a coffee-crazed fanatic.)

The daughter looked at her mom, smiled and then said to the waiter, "Sorry. Too late."

It's also too late for me. I have become exactly like my mom. I used to pride myself on the fact that I am not a worrier and that I take after my father who worries about no one and nothing. But that was before I had kids.

Poor Grant has had a rough week. He's cutting molars, he has a double ear infection, we've taken away his beloved sippy cup, and he has eaten soap (by choice) twice. Oh yeah, and last night he dumped an ounce of milk in his eye as he was trying to push it away from his face. All of his troubles have caused me to hand him an extra dose of sympathy over the course of the last few days.

A few nights back, when things were really hard, Grant woke up fussy. I rushed in to tend to him and then put him back in bed. I also went back to bed, but not to sleep. For the next hour, I tossed and turned and worried and worried; I felt so bad that Grant was suffering. The thought occurred to me that I had turned into my mother, who frequently lies awake at night, especially after being interrupted by outside elements, stressing over her children (even though we're all grown up now -- well, mostly). I foresaw myself ten years from now lying in bed awake waiting for teenagers to come home from dates and parties. "I'm doomed to a life of worries!" I thought.

Then Grant fussed again. I picked him up out of his crib, he smiled at me and began to talk. I took him to the living room so that he wouldn't wake anyone else. He wiggled out of my arms so that he could run around, in the dark, searching for toys. After twenty minutes, even though it was cute, I started to feel sorry for myself instead of Grant. He looked happy. There was no evidence of pain. Yet somehow, I had been coerced into a 4:00 a.m. play session.

So, the moral of the story is that worrying is usually in vain and can often lead you to act in ways in which you wouldn't normally. Now, no more worries! (Easier said than done.)