January 28: A Murmur, Worries, My Children

When Robert was born a murmur was found in his heart, and although the doctor told Ives that such conditions were common enough, Ives still had suffered, his morbid fantasies getting the best of him.  Thinking not just about his own past, but about the myriad possibilities for disaster, Ives found it quite impossible to sleep and would spend half the night sitting by his son's crib, fretful when he cried or had normal digestive problems, colic and the like...

A first-time father, Ives worries.  A lot.  In fact, Ives never really gets over this phase of fatherhood.  He worries constantly.  Later in the book, when Robert tells Ives that he's thinking of becoming a priest, Ives, a pious and devoted Catholic, worries about Robert's happiness.  Ives doesn't want his son to miss out on any of the world's joys, including sex, marriage, and fatherhood.  Even in moments of great joy, Ives waits for something dark to swoop in and rain disaster.


I'm a lot like Ives.  I worry.  This morning, my son had a meltdown over taking his medicine.  He dissolved into screaming and crying and kicking.  This medicine really helps my son.  It calms him down and helps him focus during the day.  His teachers have noticed the difference.  His aunts have noticed the difference.  We've noticed the difference at home.  He's a happier kid, less prone to tantrums and hysterics.

And now, tonight, I'm worrying about tomorrow morning.  I'm worried about whether or not my son is going to repeat today's episode.  I'm worried that he's never going to take his medicine again, and we're going to return to the kindergarten year, where we were receiving phone calls from his principal and teachers every other day.  Him punching a classmate in the face.  Him kicking his music teacher.  Him bending and breaking a tree on the playground.  That's my worry this evening.

Next weekend, my daughter has her ballet recital, a performance of Sleeping Beauty.  I'm worried about that, too.  I'm worried that her pointe shoes are going to get wet or collapse.  (I can't afford to get her an extra pair.)   That parts of her costumes will go missing.  That she'll fracture her foot or sprain her ankle or strain her back.

I'm like Ives, sitting by Robert's crib in the middle of the night, imagining all kinds of calamities.  Murmurs of the heart and body and spirit.  I love my children.  Want only the best for them.  It's a difficult vigil to keep, being the sentinel of safety and hope and happiness for my daughter and son.  And it's a little exhausting.  But that's why I work from eight o'clock in the morning until ten or eleven o'clock at night.  To give my kids opportunities to be the best they can be.  That's all any parent wants, isn't it?

That's what Saint Marty wants.

Worry works for me...