Parenting is Easy

Dear Danny,

It's amazing how being a parent can bring out a heart-ripping anxiety in even the most laid-back people.  I have been worrying about you every moment since the beginning, but did not initially feel like it was totally out of hand.  And your dad, while substantially less of a freaker-outer than I am, has had his moments, too, where I can look at him and see fear in his eyes. 

The other day, your dad was lifting you out of your bouncer seat and accidentally bonked your head on the edge of the table.  It left a little mark.  And because infants' heads are soft and growing, it also left a little dent.  A dent in your perfect head.  A dent in our baby's skull.  While I was pretty sure you were going to be fine, (which you were about two seconds later; you barely even cried) your dad looked panic stricken and kept glancing at that spot on your head for the rest of the night. The dent went away, and I made jokes, which is what I always do, and said that you seemed a little less intelligent than you had before the bonk, and that your eyes seemed kind of crossed to me.  Your dad laughed, but I could see he still felt bad.  And this is the guy who is trying to devise ways to get you into the bike trailer already (soon, grasshopper, soon).

The point is that we already worry about you, and you can't even walk yet.  The most mobile you get is when you roll over or kick your feet around so it looks like you're running in air. (better than television, by the way) We worry hard and about very different things.  We worry about your future and about your day at daycare and about your first cold (which you have right now) and your college education.  We worry about the world around you and how things seem to be going south really fast in our country. We have always worried about those things, but now this is your world and your country, and that makes it seem so much more important. 

After we brought you home, and after you started sleeping through the night, we had a funny little discussion about you.  I said, "I hate to jinx it, and I don't want to sound like I am dissing all of the other parents out in the world, but seriously?  This is not as hard as people say it is. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm really tired.  And we definitely lucked out with a super happy and low-key baby, but really, I love him so much that this doesn't seem like much of a chore."

And your dad agreed with me.  And we smugly lay next to each other with this little secret learned between us.  That parenting, while definitely difficult, was not as hard for strong, secure, stable people like us as it is for all the other weak parents out there.  So smitten we were with our new knowledge, the knowledge that we were super-parents, a rare breed among today's helicopters and neglectors and over-protectors, that we fell fast into a deep slumber, smug smiles still on our faces.

And then the next night I woke up in a fit of anxiety, a physical wretch in my gut, wondering how I would keep up with you when you started walking.  I sat for several minutes, eyes staring wide into our dark bedroom and thought about you trying to run into the street as a toddler and how I would catch you and keep you safe. And that inevitably led into how I would protect you for your whole life without overprotecting you and thereby turning you into a scarred and dependent adult. 

Then it occurred to me that this is why it's hard.  For the rest of my life, even when you are in your 30s and 40s and 50s, I will worry about you running into the street. Both literally and figuratively. And the hard part is not letting that show. The hard part is not letting on that, inside, I am a constant ball of nerves, waiting for the next bad thing to happen to this small tiny person I am supposed to protect without ruining, while outside, I am this cool, chill mom all about you testing your wings and trying new things and seeing how high you can climb on the jungle gym. I find myself waiting for the next bonk on the head or a mean kid at school, or heartbreak, or bad days at the office, or that you might think all dogs are as nice as ours and get bitten, and on and on and on and trying to mentally prepare myself to have the right answer in every possible situation.  And honestly, I haven't slept quite right since.

Love,

Mom