Worrywart

I’m a worrier. I wasn’t surprised to learn I would worry more once I became a mother, but I was a seasoned professional long before the additional worry of motherhood was placed on my shoulders. I worry about the usual things, and sometimes I worry about the unusual—things my husband assures me will never happen. Ha. He, of course, is not a worrier. My mother is a worrier, too. I wonder if it’s in the blood. That cautious, dip-my-toe-in-but-go-no-further feeling has affected every aspect of my life. Sometimes it overwhelms me and sometimes I’m able to cast it aside letting reason take the reins. Did I mention I’m a bit of a control-freak, too? Well, there you go.

The girls took their first trip to Sugarbush on Monday. After receiving over a foot of powder over the weekend, they ditched our local mountain in favor for some deep, white, real snow. I didn’t want to know how big the mountain was. I didn’t want to know how fast the lifts would get them to the top. I just wanted them to be careful—really careful. I can’t even count the number of times I told my husband to drive safely. All day long I counted the hours assuring myself that they were fine.

When I take them to Crotched, I stick around sometimes to see how they’re doing and I try to time them coming down, just so I can lay eyes on them and reassure myself that they are indeed, just fine. I never could look before. Now I can, but I still get a lump in my throat. Crotched is expanding next year with a faster lift that will shoot them straight to the top. Terrific. For some reason I thought this mountain would be safer for them. That was until I got a call six weeks ago letting me know my youngest daughter was taken to ski patrol. She had fallen off a box (jump) and broke her wrist. After the initial shock, and the realization that it could have been a lot worse, I thought I had crossed some sort of threshold—she got hurt; we’re in the clear. But the worry only grew.

Skiing down a mountain, my oldest daughter driving our pick-up, dating. That rope of safety we parents hang on to is getting let out a little more each day. And the gray hair is multiplying at an alarming rate.  I’ve traded in small worries for bigger worries as the years have gone by. Skinning a knee is a piece of cake, or so I’ve found out. My oldest daughter has one more year of high school before she heads off to college. I’m already shaking in my boots. This will be round two for hubby and me. We survived the college years once already with our son, but… girls are different. It’s not fair, it just is.

As I sat down to watch some TV with the girls just yesterday, the snow started to fall and quickly silenced the noise in my head. I felt at peace. We were all home, safe and sound, passing jokes back and forth as quickly as we could think of them. And for a small moment in time, I didn’t worry about a thing. I was just happy to be with them.