Mom worry

We just came back from a 12-day Mediterranean cruise (and yes, I have lots of stories). When we left I took along a six-pack of generic nutrition drink for Scott figuring with the time change he might wake up hungry in the middle of the night. And he did, for the first several nights and then a few more after that. When we ran out of the drink Mark talked a bar tender into giving him a liter of milk. Then we ran out of that and forgot to replace it. So Murphy and his damn Law intervened one night at the inhuman hour of 4:39 A-freaking-M. There were no bartenders to beg, threaten, or perform sexual favors for because the bars were closed. Ditto for the cafeterias. I could have called room service but I wasn’t functioning at maximum cognitive capacity at that hour. So I gave Scott the only thing I had. A chocolate chip cookie. And as soon as it was in his hand he laid back down on the pillow and went back to sleep. Leaving me to stare at him and begin to worry. I worried that he might wake up and eat the cookie and choke. Or eat it in his sleep and choke. Or just spontaneously choke. And I silently cursed my husband because he never has these worries. When I voice these fears to him I can practically see him suppressing an eye roll. But why should does all of the worrying fall on my shoulders? I’m the one who foresees the potential dangers and tries to prevent them (even though I am, admittedly often sometimes the cause of the danger in the first place). I was the one who bought the toddler leash on the boat because I worried that Scott might somehow fling himself overboard.

Scott standing on a chair obviously attempting to throw himself overboard

I’m the one who packs sunscreen with SPF 50 because I don’t want the kids to get skin cancer. I called the pediatrician before the trip to see if the kids needed any particular shots before we went. To be fair to Mark, I also insisted on tearing down every wall in our house and replacing them in order to get rid of all traces of lead paint. And I built a five foot tall fence across the front of our property to keep the kids out of the street (“Welcome to Imperfect Mommy Compound”). So Mark’s belief that my worries are a bit insane over-the-top are not unfounded. It’s just that his carefree, worry-free attitude just makes me feel a bit stabbity sometimes.

Now I have to go change the sand in the sandbox. The neighbors let their cat run free and it might have pooped in the sand. Don’t judge me.