This winter storm we’re having made me realize one of my deeply buried maternal superstitions. Somewhere in my subconscious, I have this philosophy that it’s my job to worry about things so they don’t happen.
Case in point: My son goes to college in Indiana – about 6 hours away. Yesterday, prior to the storm moving in, he was leaving school to return home for Christmas break. The combination of his driving home and the storm arriving sent me into a tizzy. I made at least six phone calls to him that sounded something like this: “What time are you leaving? You need to leave early. You need to beat the storm. The storm is going to be HUGE. Leave as early as possible. What do you mean you haven’t packed yet?! Do you have warm enough clothes for the trip home in case you get stuck? Call me as soon as you leave.” (So I could commence worrying even more.)
I’m certain there was much eye-rolling during these calls, but he was kind enough not to share this with me. Truth be told, I wanted to scare him a little because at his age, you tend to think you’re immortal and nothing will ever happen to you.
I’m old enough to know that things happen to people, which, of course, makes me worry even more. And I seem to believe that if I worry about things enough, then they won’t happen. Often, it works, which is probably why I keep doing it.
But here’s the thing: This worrying gig is kind of exhausting, especially because it never ends. Sigh.
