Parenting
Updated: Jan. 20, 2016
Yesterday unfolded like any typical day. I hit the snooze button one too many times and woke up late, which set off a chain reaction of chaos, as it often does. It wasn’t until I dropped off my son at daycare that I finally had a moment to gather my thoughts. As I walked down the pathway to the parking lot, the anxiety crept in.
Did I tell him I love him? I can’t shake the feeling that I forgot. He showered me with kisses, but did I say those three little words? What kind of mother am I?
Deep down, I know he understands my love. My rational side reassures me of this, but as these thoughts swirl in my mind, they’re hard to dismiss. I shouldn’t let my insecurities manifest into uncalled-for worry, yet I find myself unable to stop.
Once I got into my car, I called my husband, feeling the weight of my thoughts. “I think I forgot to tell our baby I love him,” I confessed. He calmly echoed the words I needed to hear, “He knows you love him.” Relief washed over me, if only for a moment, until the next wave of anxiety hit.
I’m an anxious mom, and it’s a label I despise.
My worries range from the rational to the absurd. I fret over whether I was too harsh with my son, or if he didn’t eat enough during the day. I stress about the times I was busy with chores and may have overlooked him. Did I put him in time-out when all he needed was a comforting hug?
At night, I check on him while he sleeps, repeatedly wondering if his breathing is steady or if he’s too close to the edge of his crib. I worry about the potential dangers he might face throughout the day, even if there’s no logical reason for those fears. What if he slips from my grip and darts into the street? What if he tumbles off the slide? He’s two now, strong and adventurous, but still—what if I didn’t tell him I love him, and that was the last chance I had?
I know these thoughts are irrational, yet I can’t help but entertain them. As a mother who constantly worries, my mind is a battlefield filled with relentless thoughts. The energy I could dedicate to enjoying time with my child is instead spent on trying to quiet my anxieties. It’s not just unhealthy—it’s utterly draining.
I constantly replay scenarios in my head, fixated on what I should have done differently or what I must remember for the future. I cling to mistakes that my son will likely never recall, chastising myself long after he’s moved on. I realize this might sound absurd to those who don’t experience such anxiety. Sometimes, I even question my own sanity.
Isn’t that silly? I worry because I’m worrying too much! I wish I could simply allow the day to unfold without overthinking every moment. I long to switch off those relentless thoughts or at least dial them down to a manageable level. But I haven’t figured out how to do that yet—though I will, for my boy.
I never want my son to inherit this anxious disposition. I fear the day will come when he can sense my worries and internalize them as his own. I don’t want him to be burdened by the same anxieties that plague me. He deserves a brave mom, not a worrying one.
That’s my goal; I just haven’t reached it yet. For now, he has to make do with me, the anxious mom. While I may despise the “anxious” part of that label, I cherish the role of being his mother, and I know he feels my love—even if I sometimes forget to say it.
This article was originally published on Jan. 20, 2016.
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