Whether you’re in a relationship and/or a parent you find yourself cast in a certain role.
I am The Worrier.
You would probably laugh if I told you about the things that I worry about and, yes, I know all the blah blah about 90% of the things you worry about that won’t happen. I just try to see the shit coming before it hits us so that I know whether I should duck, scoop or throw it back. I like to Get Shit Done, to varying degrees of success, as the many unfinished art projects lying around our house will attest to.
I’m the one that feels helpless outrage on behalf of my children, carefully disguised as a distracted listener. The one that gets terribly upset with people much to the mystification of my husband. The one that sticks her nose in where it doesn’t belong and questions things that are sometimes best left alone.
I’m the not-so-fun one. The one that has lists. The one that gets cross when kids don’t listen. I feel like a failure when they don’t have a protein, a carb and a fruit in their lunchbox. When I forget about school stuff, which I do. Often. When there are things that I miss out on because I’m at work.
I sometimes wonder if other homes work like ours, whether the things I worry about are normal gender differences and most other women are like this or whether I’m a freak. (Either way, I don’t really care if I’m a freak, I’m just curious. Turning 40 gave me license not to care)
I’m (contrary to what you might believe after reading this) actually quite comfortable in my skin and very happy and blessed with my life. I prefer to be the Worrier, because I somehow find comfort in the quagmire that is my noisy mind.
But sometimes, just sometimes, I want to be free of the what-ifs and the how’s and the why’s.
I wish I could just shut down the noise for a little while. It’s really exhausting, all that noise and justifiable (out)rage.
Or I just really, really need a fucking holiday.