I love my kids. To me, they are the most amazing human beings. Sure, they can be annoying at times, but overall, they are great. However, I’ve noticed something since they’ve reached adulthood. The worry doesn’t stop. Like ever. Potty training, benchmark tests, driving, dating, ACTs and SATs, first apartments, all tough in their own way, but back then we were in a controlled environment. They still lived at home, so we had a shred of control over the situation. Meaning I could check on them always. It’s different these days.
Now that they’ve reached adulthood, it’s a whole new ballgame. Unless they explicitly tell us about their plans to go to Bonnaroo or take a spontaneous trip to a new city with friends, we’re left in the dark. They seem like baby rabbits in the wild, vulnerable to any baby rabbit savage that may cross their path. And let’s face it, calling their mommy may not be the first thing that comes to mind when they make plans to do anything. So, if I don’t know what I should be worrying about, I’ll just sit here and worry about EVERYTHING. It’s maddening and turns into a vicious cycle.
When I’m caught in the wind turbine of worry, I think of my mom and suddenly feel bad.
One month after I moved into the freshman dorm, mom called wanting an update on what I was doing and when I would be coming home. They missed me. But I had no time. There were too many things to do and see. I couldn’t tell her about the late-night party at a stranger’s house I was heading to.
The first time I went to the beach for spring break during college, Mom insisted I call on the way the moment we arrived and at least once during the trip. I didn’t. It wasn’t until the person checking us into our hotel handed me a stack of notes and messages from my frantic mother that I remembered. To say she was unhinged when I finally called would be an understatement. She went through the litany of imagined scenarios she faced because I didn’t call. I couldn’t understand what she was so upset about. Now, I get it.
Often, when life felt like it was going sideways, the only person I wanted to talk to was Mom. I’d call her crying. It doesn’t matter why, what, or who made me cry. Each time, she would talk me off the ledge. I’d dry my tears and go on about my week. This happened often. I would call or visit, cry, leave all my troubles, and then voila, I’d be fine. I never gave a thought to what I left Mom to deal with. I was fine, but she would be stuck cleaning up the emotional mess I left behind.
She never said anything. Never gave me any warning that worry doesn’t end when our children reach the magical age of adulthood. Instead, she just listened and waited patiently. She knew I wouldn’t need her all the time, but she was there anytime I did. And that’s what I try to do now.
My boys are adults indeed who occasionally send out an SOS for help walking through unknown territory, but for the most part they are just figuring it out.
They are experiencing this awesomely crazy world the best way they know how. As they navigate, we their parents are also navigating a new space too. Taking our cues from them and learning that worry doesn’t really accomplish anything, but it definitely gives me material to write about.
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