I know I do. I have been told oftentimes that “worry is my middle name.” This cliché spans generations and cultures and is, I believe, quite true especially for parents. I remember how my mom acted when I was in high school. Mobile phones were not common those days and there was no way of keeping track of children at all times. That is why we had curfews. Then I went to college. I had to call home several times a week to reassure the parents that I was fine and was staying clear of trouble.
Now that I am all grown up, I suppose it is but natural to carry the tradition of worrying about children. Will my kids be safe in school? Are they in danger of being bullied in the play ground?
I can just imagine the predicament of parents who have teenagers. Would they be all right when they go to parties? Would they have the willpower to withstand peer pressure and do the right thing? Would they be safe driving?
Is this kind of worry healthy or is too much? I read an article at BC Local News which shared a heartwarming story:
She remembers talking many years ago to her brother-in-law, my now dearly departed Uncle Val. I was about 12 at the time, so my brothers would have been 15 and 17.
“I know our generation is going to make it through life with jobs and being financially stable, Val, but I worry about the children,” said Mom, whose fears raising three boys by herself at such a time could certainly be justified.
My uncle paused for a moment, then told Mom something she never forgot.
“Don’t worry,” he told her soothingly. “You and I have made it growing up through the Depression as children ourselves and, as young adults, through a world war. Our own parents certainly had cause to worry about us, too.
“Our kids will survive, adapt to their surroundings and thrive in love and life as much as fate permits.”
He was right. It’s true, completely true. Only I still worry. And, like Mom, probably always will.
The author was right – worry is part of the job.
Photo courtesy of kellynocca