Worry has consumed me for days. Wearing me out, making me cranky.
No matter how old my children get I still fret, fuss and worry about them.
My oldest boy is a bit of a loner. He keeps to himself for the most part but occasionally enough I'd get a communication from him. Just often enough to keep me from becoming frantic.. as I was today.
For the first Christmas since I can remember, he did not join us at all during the holidays.
Why? Lack of funds to get him here. No work in Guelph for him. Not yet anyway.
In Sudbury he never lacked for a job of some sort so I never had to worry. At least not that I know of but this time.. after years of me saying "if you ever need anything" he contacted me and he needed some help, which I happily gave. Since then, despite many communications from me I have had no response. No one had heard from him for some time. So, doing what I seem to do best, I began to worry, and as the days went from a few, to more than month, I began to imagine the worst. I cried, I felt paniced, I had bad dreams.
Tonight, I got a call from my father, his grandfather to say he had recived an e-mail from my son early this morning. He called me because he knew how worried I was. I still am, but less so.
I hate this part of being a mom. The worry. How I am now vulnerable to so many more things than I was when it was just me I had to worry about. I wake every day and wish to myself that my children make it safely through the day, I wish for their health and thier happiness and I recite the same mantra when I climb into bed at night. I have done this every morning and night since the first one was born and I will do every morning and night till the day I die. It is the one habit I have. The one routine that I am faithful to every day of my life.