I recently aimed my worry wagon at the Anonymous Husband, who - brace yourselves for this win of logic - I worried wasn't worrying enough. Yeah. With our poor Master P spiking a fever again last night, I was all aflutter with fretting and "Are you sure we should listen to the on-call doctor and wait 'til the morning to get him checked out?" and "Should we still travel to the wedding this weekend?" and "Am I being a bad host to our visiting family?" and grumble grumble grumble WORRY. "Why am I the only one upset about all of this?" I asked him.
He gave me one of those patient, long-suffering husband looks and responded, not with one of his (ok, *our*) usual smart-alecky one-liners, but in a calm, reflective tone - "I worry every day. I worry about raising our son the right way. I worry about you being happy. I worry about earning enough to support us & do the things we want to do. I worry about saving enough money for our future. So, yeah, I worry - I just don't always tell you because I don't want you to worry more."
|In healthier times - photo credit to the ever-fab Ziem Photography|
Oh. OK, then. Now I'll worry about being the jerk who nags her super excellent husband/provider/best friend type about not complaining enough.
In my wiser moments, I recall that verse - "Which of you by worrying can add a single hour to your life?" "Oh, sure - easier said than done," my inner adolescent quickly counters. "I bet those perky apostles never had a feverish toddler / (insert whatever life situation I'm currently apoplectic about here). Hmmph."
Here's to a little infant Tylenol and a lot of faith & husband appreciation. Maybe I'll try and go with the truffle mac n' cheese with only a side of worry the next time - maybe . . .