Dear Mothers #10

For Aching with Anxiety

Dear Mothers,

I have this ache, you see. Not the physical kind, though I have plenty of those, too. But a mental ache. No, not mental illness, that seems too serious a diagnosis for my affliction. Therapy is lovely but doesn’t seem the correct prescription.

I ache with anxiety. Low level, perpetual anxiety. 

I have three children, one soon to be four, one soon to be three (yes, fourteen months apart) and one eight months. I was a naive woman, as I’ve discovered many are, who assumed motherhood would come naturally. Librarian by trade, my expertise is solving problems through research. 

During my first pregnancy, I dove headfirst into researching birth, caregiving, common baby illnesses, sleep deprivation strategies, all the baby gear, how to wear a baby wrap, and so on and so forth. Baby arrived, and we thrived. Joy abounded as we learned this whole new gig together. We did all the educational, fun and creative things. Baby number one was so fun. 

And then came surprise baby number two, and with that, it’s own set of unique challenges. There was some postpartum anxiety and rage if I’m honest, but I still had two babies and I was rocking it. We had bedtimes, bath times, nap times and meals figured out. 

Time went on, though. My previous research covered the first couple years and then it just dried up. Expertise waning, my toddlers had reached new levels of understanding, feral wildness and energy. Here begins the ache. You see, I’ve continued to research. I’ve absorbed so much information on what they should eat, how they should behave, milestones they’re missing, and it’s all causing the ache to grow. And, as aches often do, it’s disrupting my peace. But worse, it’s stealing my joy.

Permit me for a moment to provide an example: 

Did you know kids aren’t supposed to have popcorn before they’re four? How about that TikTok where the poor little girl is dying in a hospital from a water bead after she tried to taste it? Did you know glitter can cause seizures if it gets into a very specific part of a child’s (or any person’s) eye? 

These are all parts of thousands (millions?) of tidbits I’ve picked up since my children started crawling. Now if my husband and I drop a piece of popcorn at night with our grown-up movie and my son finds it in the morning and pops it in his mouth with a cheeky grin, I panic. “Don’t do that! You shouldn’t eat food off the floor.” This is my constant refrain. “Don’t do that! That’s not safe! I’m trying to keep you safe!”

You see, dear mothers, the ache persists. Every movement my wonderful, curious, wild boys make is guarded by a watchful and anxious mom. How I desperately long to be free and fun again. Is that even possible, given what I know?

Here’s what I already know: to give myself grace. Love Jesus with my whole heart and mind and soul. Love my children and my husband. 

Here’s what I don’t know: how to relax and find joy again. 

Dear mothers, will you help me? 

Sincerely, Aching with Anxiety.

Dear Aching with Anxiety,

Maybe I am not the exact right person to respond back to you given that, well, I think I am you. 

My kids are a bit older than yours—ten, eight, six, and five—so I’m no longer worried about popcorn kernels lodging in their throats or obsessed with cutting their grapes and cherry tomatoes in half. But the feral wildness and energy you speak of? My two boys—the youngest of our gaggle—live freely in that exact space, and our girls dip their toes in it from time-to-time as well. My baseline is worry. My expertise is an ability to anticipate worst-case scenarios. My husband’s brothers both have trampolines in their backyards, and I cannot tell you how many times I have taken it upon myself to police the number of kids jumping. I’m not looking to add any broken femurs to our family, I say with a lilt so as to come off breezy and cool about the whole thing even though the jig was up long ago as far as my ability to hide my anxiety about all the things.