Wednesday, September 18, 2013

September 18: Tiny Kids, Daughter and Son, All Worry

I passed by this playground and stopped and watched a couple of very tiny kids on a seesaw.  One of them was sort of fat, and I put my hand on the skinny kid's end, to sort of even up the weight, but you could tell they didn't want me around, so I let them alone.

Holden has a soft spot for kids.  Any kids.  He simply wants to protect them from the adult world.  The adult world forces kids to worry about grades and college and sex and popularity.  Holden just wants kids to be kids.  Playgrounds.  Seesaws.  Singing songs in the rye field.  Kid things.

My daughter is on a class trip until Friday.  She's totally out of my control range.  I can't protect her or help her if anything goes wrong.  My son started kindergarten last week.  He's having trouble in his classroom.  He punched a kid on the bus, and we got a phone call from the principal.  All that in the first two weeks.  Two weeks.  My wife and I are in so much trouble.

I worry about my kids.  When my son crosses my mind during the course of my waking hours, I pray.  God and I have been talking a lot these last 14 days.  My daughter causes me a little less stress.  My worries for her are holdovers from my own middle school years.  I believe I already listed them above:  grades, college, sex, popularity.  Let me add to that weight, body image, and wardrobe.  (Sometimes it feels like I never left middle school.)

I wish I could let go of these concerns.  I wish I could be like my daughter who can sit on the couch, watching videos on the iPad, seemingly not a worry in her pretty little head.  I wish I could be like my son, whose main stress is, "Can I go to grandma's house today?"  For the last few days, he's been riding the birthday wave, telling me last night at bedtime, "I so excited.  My birfday is two Thursdays in a week."

But I can't do that.  I've been out of the rye field for quite some time.  I fell off that cliff 25 plus years ago.  Worry is my constant companion.  And I'm afraid I'm going to pass my insecurities on to my progeny, like brown eyes or baldness or diabetes.

Saint Marty's kids don't stand a chance.

Please, God, no...

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