It’s that time again. The annual beach weekend for my husband’s side of the family. A weekend where we can catch up, drink too much, eat too much and share memories. About eleven years ago, when I was first introduced to the family and this weekend-o-fun, I was footloose and fancy-free. Not a care (or anxiety) in the world. With a handful of the cousins about five years older than us, my husband (then boyfriend) and I were busy setting up the next drinking game, while they were all setting up portable cribs. We were explaining the next game of dice while they were playing rock-paper-scissors for who was going to go check on their kids. Fast forward to today. These same cousins are grabbing a drink at the nearby wine bar, while my husband and I are in the closet trying to get our youngest child down for bed. Yup, literally in the closet. This is strategically the best place to put a crib when walls aren’t enough to dampen the sounds of adult story time and preteen music mash-ups. With the help of mommy laying on the floor beside them, our little ones finally give into bedtime temptation. To be honest, I would have laid naked, on a block of ice, in the Arctic Tundra, if it meant that there was some quiet time in my future. A glass of wine would thaw me out in no time. Well, I’d have to wait for that glass of wine. Mommy dozed off in my attempt to calm the children and by the time she woke up, it was midnight and pouring another glass of anything, was pretty much pointless now. Might as well get some rest and dream about the relaxing cup of coffee the morning will bring.
As with all mornings, I’m excited for the coffee ritual. Especially when there is the added bonus of enjoying the cup on the balcony, overlooking the ocean and noshing on freshly made cinnamon rolls from the local hot spot. At least this is how the vision of that cup of coffee plays out in my delusional and grossly misguided head. I manage to score a first cup just before my son slobbers on a sizeable pile of Honey Nut Cheerios. It’s almost as if he’s using the drool as a paste in the construction of a piece of cereal art. Once he’s finished with that project (thrown the soggy Cheerios to the floor), he insists on spending time on the patio, where the cousins I mentioned previously are soaking up the morning air and a truly relaxing cup of coffee. My son hasn’t completely mastered the logistics of walking, so putting this drunken sailor on a hard surface with sporadic puddles of water is the picture of what you’d see when looking up the definition for ‘What Not to Do’ or ‘Accident Waiting to Happen’ or ‘How to Exponentially Increase Your Parental Anxiety’.
I’m not sure when it exactly happened, but I didn’t used to have so much parental anxiety. Yes, my mind definitely goes to the loss of my first son as a potentially valid trigger. But when my daughter was little, and she’d fall or get scared, I’d be more inclined to tell her to brush it off. I was much more willing to see how certain situations played out. I would have thought that she would have gotten the brunt of my “loss mom paranoia” (more about this here). I’m not to the point of using pillows and helmets to protect my children, but if this was socially acceptable and there were bumper-like gadgets approved for toddlers, I might take a gander. If I’m in a familiar setting, I am definitely more laid back. I know where to find the Band-Aids and I’ve already done a quick survey for sharp corners and toddler-challenging surfaces. Maybe it’s because my youngest child is more of a bull-in-a-china-shop kinda kid. He walks stumbles around with so much purpose. It’s like I’m waiting for him to curl up like a human bowling ball and get a strike with whatever happens to be in his path. Maybe the anxiety builds with every child? Or maybe I’m just getting older and this is what happens? I’m secretly hoping that someone is going to comment on this post that all anxiety is removed when your child turns ____ years old. I know, I know, it never goes away. Under the definition for ‘anxiety’ in the dictionary, it wouldn’t be surprising to see the words, see ‘parenthood’.
After watching my son take a couple of laps around the balcony and narrowly missing some of the wooden corners of the patio furniture, I tapped out and let my husband be the baby watcher. About ten minutes later my son came inside to find me. His slippers were soaking wet and the front of his pajamas were a puddle-soaked mess. But before I noticed the mess, all I could focus on was the huge dimpled smile on his face. This is what I want for my kids. What we all want for our kids. The fun. Yes, we always hope the messes aren’t too big, and that we can clean those up later. The last thing I want is to let my parental anxiety infringe on the fun and messy moments that life can bring. I’m learning that I’m going to have to make a conscious effort to try to balance parental protection with life exploration – and keep an extra set of clothes handy, just for the puddles.
❤
Laura the answer must be greater than 72!