I suppose once you’re a parent the worrying never ends. I’m not a parent yet myself, but today reminded me of this fact.
I’m visiting my parents to help take care of things around the house while my mom heals from surgery. I’m here to help. I’m here to clean and cook and get the laundry done. I should be the one worrying about how my mom is healing and how my dad is holding up with everything. But…it seems that once you’re a mom the job of worrying stays.
We’d finished breakfast, dishes were in the dishwasher, and my parents were happily reading the paper in the living room. I laced up my running shoes and said I’d be back in about 90 minutes (I had 10 miles to run).
“Which way are you going?” my mom asked.
So I told her. “West out Chestnut as far as I can go and then I’ll figure out how much further I need to go on Summitview.”
“So, out and back?”
“Yup, pretty much.”
“Well, be careful and have fun.”
As I ran, I had a lot of time to think about that little exchange. I go on long runs all the time from my own home and my mom doesn’t even know I’ve headed out for one, let alone the route I might take. And I know she doesn’t constantly fret over what I might be doing each minute of the day. But there’s something about being back home and under her roof. It’s automatic. She needs to know the plan. She needs to know when she might expect me home. She needs to know where I’ll be. She is a mom who worries about her kids and for that, I love her even more.