Updated: August 21, 2015
Originally Published: July 13, 2015
I used to have nightmares about murderers, plane crashes, and car wrecks. I would conjure up such elaborate scenarios in my mind, I was convinced I’d met a freakish end in a past life. I admired people—especially my partner, Jake—who could simply lay their heads down and drift off to dreamland without a care. How could they not be fretting about the next big earthquake that might shake the country? Or how could they sleep soundly knowing we’re wrecking the planet with our emissions? The Cold War won’t stay cold forever, and judging by their peaceful expressions, you’d think they had never heard of spies.
After my second son arrived and I was sent to therapy to tackle my guilt about his health issues, I realized something I’d possibly known all along: I was grappling with anxiety. That explained why I clutched the steering wheel so tightly on our drives to the cabin, convinced that a herd of deer would suddenly leap into our path, causing a catastrophic scene involving fur, guts, and my family sprawled across the highway.
My childhood reactions offer a clear glimpse into my anxious mind. Once, in response to teasing my father about being overly uptight, he made me clean every corner of my bathroom before I could do my homework. “What kind of kid wants to do her homework so badly she’d scrub a bathroom with a toothbrush?” he asked, baffled. Apparently, this kid.
I distinctly remember being convinced that if I didn’t finish some chemistry assignment immediately, the Earth might stop spinning. My therapist would likely have pointed that out as just another indication of my anxiety and paranoia.
Once I became a parent, my fears shifted from my own potential demise to worrying about my child’s safety. What if I accidentally dropped him from the changing table? What if he stuffed too many Cheerios in his mouth and choked before I could intervene? What if he figured out how to escape his crib, open the childproof door, turn on the bathroom light, fill the tub, and drown while I was asleep?
I knew these fears were irrational, yet they haunted me nightly, playing out like a soap opera with an award-winning plot twist.
Now that my oldest is six and exuberantly extroverted, my worries have morphed into something far more daunting. Instead of fearing physical accidents, I now grapple with the loss of his innocence. There’s nothing scarier than realizing I can’t shield him from the harsh realities of life—from the first real disappointment to the heartache caused by unkind peers or even adults.
I wasn’t fully aware of the depth of these fears until we went camping a few years back. My little boy—who is clearly not so little anymore—ventured off to play with an older kid at the campsite. Although I kept him in my sights, pacing nearby like a nervous wreck, my mind spiraled into dark daydreams. I didn’t fear the usual accidents; rather, I feared him being ridiculed, bullied, or hurt emotionally. Those wounds would leave deeper scars, chipping away at his joyful spirit and hardening his once-open heart against the world’s cruelties.
When I was expecting my oldest, a co-worker asked if I was anxious about becoming a parent. “Not at all,” I replied. “As parents, we just do our best and hope for the best.” Today, my answer would be different: “Worried about parenting? No way. Being a parent is within my control. It’s the childhood part that terrifies me, because I can’t control that. No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop them from growing up.”
And that, my friends, is the scariest thought of all.
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Summary: Parenting is a journey filled with anxieties, from fears of accidents to the deeper terror of watching children face the harsh realities of life. As children grow, parents grapple with the challenge of protecting their innocence while navigating their own worries about the world.