Worry is the thief of joy. Never have truer words been spoken.
Thanks to the power of imagination and the intensity of my worry, I have created drastic, tragic situations out of nothing. Some would call me a "drama queen." I prefer "overally prepared."
For Easter, I was anticipating egg-snatching, tears, and a healthy round of "That's mine" to accompany the egg hunt between Owen and his cousin. To combat this, I had an elaborate plan to mark the kid's eggs with special designs to ensure that that everybody got the same amount and nobody was upset.
I, of course, ran out of time to do this. We consequently had a plain old egg hunt and everybody was just fine. No marking required.
When Owen had his flu shot, I was prepared to pin him to the table as he thrashed about. I was ready to bribe him with Panera, a new toy, a car, whatever it took.
The nurse said that she wanted to see his cool big-boy pants, and then said, "Oops, I think I pinched you," as the needle did its job. Owen didn't even blink.
When we put our war-paint on and decided it was time to let baby Owen cry it out, you would think I was sending him off to slaughter. "My poor baby," I wept, thinking of his feelings of isolation, shame, fear, and quiet desperation as he wailed in his crib, alone, unloved.
He cried for about twenty minutes and slept through the night consistently after that.
Joel has never taken a bottle from me. I do boobs; Paul does the bottles. However, it has come to my attention that the girls are simply not doing the job for Joel anymore. He's not eating enough, and we end up having to supplement him with formula anyway.
So, we're beginning to wean. I'll spare you the mixed feelings I'm having about this, because, as far as I know, this blog did not turn into email@example.com. when I wasn't looking...
Suffice to say, I gave Joel a bottle today. He didn't cry. There was no, "Oh, Mother, how could you! What about our sacred bond? The bond, woman, the bond!" There was no betrayal or fear. Instead there was, "Oh, cool a bottle."
He drank six ounces in about six minutes.
Maybe, just maybe, I'm more worried about transitions than my children because it's me, not them, that are having a hard time letting go.