Worry warts

Worry, that most useless of emotions, takes me from heights of great joy, and gently brings me back to Earth. I watch my children playing with abandon and enviously wonder how they can immerse themselves so deeply and entirely in their frolicking with nary a worry in the world. It's as it should be. It used to be that way for me not long ago, but something changed in the past ten years.

I turned into an old worry wart.

Even when I'm out and about with my friends walking, shopping, drinking my tall-non-fat-no-whip-iced peppermint mocha, I have nagging thoughts in the back of my head. I should be doing laundry, my kitchen is a mess, I shouldn't be spending money on iced lattes.

The previous week I tried to take the kids on a walk to the lake. Conditions were far more promising this time around, so we set out once again, scanning the horizons for potential storm clouds. The skies were blue as a robin's egg for miles in each direction.

At each point along the way we reminisced. This was where we got caught in the rain. This was where we got caught in the hail storm, I thought with a tinge of guilt. In no time, we arrived at the lake.

We found a lovely playground, and I watched with contentment as the kids explored together, played together, laughed together.

As a mom, it was the perfect moment. My kids were happy, playing so beautifully, getting fresh air, exercise, and sunshine.

But, did I remember their sunscreen?

There was that nagging, gnawing thought creeping in to blemish an otherwise beautiful moment.

From there we walked to the nearest beach where my kids had the time of their lives playing in the sand, splashing in the water, and running themselves ragged. They watched boats go by, found shells, and giggled gleefully.

I watched with a smile on my face as my mind pushed away useless I should haves and I could haves. They overwhelmed me on the walk back home when the rain clouds gathered again. I called my husband to come get us before we got drenched.

That week, my Skokie Sistah and I continued our daily walks, what we call our personal summer camp. Each day we explored a new part of the city. On Monday, she took me to the Chicago Botanic Gardens.

I am still amazed that after two years I had never visited this beautiful gem in the northern suburbs. The gardens stretched out for miles, meandering around sparkling ponds and fountains. We wandered through vegetable gardens, manicured flower gardens with topiaries, waterfalls, and Japanese gardens.

The weather was perfect, the vistas breathtaking, and even the wildlife seemed at peace. A giant koi swam to the surface of the pond to eat as we crossed the bridge, ignoring our gawking. Swans tended to their nests and rested in the shade, not feigning to take notice as we pointed and took pictures.

I can't remember being so at peace with the world.

That night was anything but peaceful. My husband had another law school event. This time it was Whirlyball. Perhaps it's a generational anomaly, but I had never heard of this recreational phenomenon. My husband jumped right in, but I preferred to watch him from a safe distance.

How times have changed. There was a time when I would have been playing every round, revelling in the barroom scene, playing pool, lining up for laser tag, having a drink or two. I was amazed at how far away that seemed. I felt old, awkward, and out-of-place. Where had the carefree me gone? I did play a couple of rounds, and I did have a little fun, but I was ready to get home after a short while.

On Tuesday, my Skokie Sistah and I took our personal summer camp downtown where we hit the Mag Mile, Chicago's Michigan Avenue. We walked up and down window shopping and more. At one store I looked for stylish and flattering blouses for myself, but ended up buying clothing for the kids instead.

We dined at the Metro Klub, a kosher business lunch restaurant. Even as we slowly savored each bite of adult-only food in an adult-only setting, even as we breathed deep sighs of relaxed breaths, we glanced nervously at our watches acutely aware that our "me-time" was limited.

Even when my dearest little cousin and his expecting wife (so maybe he's not that little anymore) came to visit, the worry gene kicked in.

My cousin came in Wednesday night from a business trip. I fed him some left over chicken pot pie and a slice of chocolate and chili oil tart, and sent him to bed. The next morning we woke the kids up early, got them dressed, piled them into the car, and went to pick up the mommy-to-be at the airport.

From there we dropped off all the kids at their respective camps and daycare, had breakfast, and went to spend a lovely morning at the Botanic Gardens, my new favorite spot. It was a sunny, but slightly chilly morning. We avoided shadows and clung to sunlight to stay warm, and I fretted like an old hen. Do you need to rest? Do you need some water? Can I carry your bag?

Like I'd never been pregnant before? Please! I was teaching wildly athletic fencing moves at eight months with my third kid (none too gracefully) without batting an eye; but eliciting many nervous giggles. And here I was all weekend, worrying needlessly about the preggers cousin who barely looked more pregnant than I. I'm not even expecting.

It was so wonderful being with my cousins. They looked so happy, so hopeful, so beautiful together. Even I remember that feeling, almost ten years ago, expecting my first child. I remember being stunningly beautiful then, too. My hair was thick, shiny, and wavy, my skin glowed, and my body rounded out like a Botero sculpture, but my legs remained muscular and shapely.

Ugh. What a difference a decade has made. Ten years ago I was the anxious pregnant lady hearing harrowing tales from veteran moms of colic and sleepless nights.

And now I had become that veteran mom telling the scary stories. Mea culp, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

And if that weren't enough, here I was unleashing three frightening children on the young, eager, expectant couple. And my kids didn't disappoint. The baby was boing-boing-boinging non-stop from the moment she laid eyes on her cousins, big brother asked a million questions in rapid-fire succession, and middle sister ran big cousin ragged.

I cringed, apologized, blushed, and tried to pull over-excited kids off their weary cousins. But I suspect if I had been less worried about how overwhelming the situation was for them and realized that the only overwhelmed person was me, the mom who lived with it day in and day out, I may have noticed their smiles.

My little cousin is a grown man. His wife is a successful, high-powered, high-falutin' lawyer. They're far more prepared and capable than I was with my first. Maybe even more than I am with my third.

My mom was carefree once, too. I love the story she tells when she was a young girl in Cuba. She was a daredevil who broke her arm trying to bike down a hill while wearing roller skates. Where's that devil-may-care spirit today? Mom's a big-time worry wart now.

I'm quite sure my aunt had the same free spirit when she was a young girl hanging out with the Santeria neighbors. No offense, Tia, but you're a worry wart, too.

Where did it come from?

I'm worried it's too late to make it go away.