Genetically Predisposed to Worry

The last few days have been interesting. They've gone something like this:

Thursday, April 23: Harper calls me from school, doesn't leave a message. I try to reach school, unsuccessfully, so I make the trip whereupon I discover Harper has been kicked in the face by an erstwhile monkey bars pal. She's bleeding mildly, fat-lipped but has an ice pack in place. She's alright. Later that day, she loses one of her big front teeth, only a few days prematurely, helped no doubt by stopping some one's foot with her peach of a face.

Friday, April 24: Harper calls me from school, doesn't leave a message. I try to reach school, unsuccessfully, so I make the trip, whereupon I find Harp looking green, stomach ailing, with a slight fever. We go home.

Monday, April 27: Harp's teacher calls me. Harper has run full speed into the play structure. She has a bump; she's dizzy, she doesn't want to attend chorus after school. To school I go, Rosie in tow, and think it's probably just a little bump. Harp's wearing a hat. I talk to her teacher, lift her hat and discover that my girl looks more like a Klingon than the person I left earlier that morning.

Tuesday, April 28: I go to yoga - apparently I just shouldn't leave the house. I return to two messages, one from school, one from Chris informing me that Harp fell off the monkey bars, and is in the ER getting x-rays for a broken arm. Just a sprain, as it turns out.

WTF? By the time Chris and Harp returned home, I was near hysterics - as hysterical as I get. You probably wouldn't know it to look at me, but the brain is buzzing, the nerves all a tingle. I took one bite of the lunch that Chris had thoughtfully brought home for the three of us and my stomach lurched in protest. I was so worried, so clenchy waiting for them to come home - so I could make sure that my peach of a person was intact - that I'd created some science experiment in my belly. Days of getting calls, running to school, ice packs, concern, Klingon heads, which have now turned faintly into little black/grey eyes, trips to the ER, a sling, and enough ibuprofen to sedate a small farm animal, have made my insides all squirrely.

And then I face the truth again, which is this; I'm a worrier - a bad ass feisty, clenchy worrier, from a long, distinguished line of worriers. When I was a kid, my mom always jumped to conclusions about my health. Skin sensitivity = shingles, sore throat=strep throat, skin irritation = poison oak. My grandmother was convinced that if she wrung her hands together hard enough, she could prevent accidents; if she armed her daughter and grandchildren with enough information, imparted enough of her worry, absolutely nothing unexpected would happen to us. And so here I am - a descendant of caring, nut-nut, worriers.

I have no problem dwelling on the thousand and one things that can happen to my peeps, all the accidents waiting for them. Sometimes at night, my mind turns to thoughts of car accidents, falls, violent outcomes to everyday movement and transport. And then I flinch, remember my genetic and nurtured proclivity for the macabre and travel to my happy place. Most times, it works. Sometimes, not so much.

I'm not sure what forces conspired to test Harp's skeletal integrity this past week; I'm just glad she's okay, even if I'm ready to find some black clothes, some pals and a blow torch to dismantle the monkey bars in the dead of night. But then I think...maybe the monkey bars are really just a test, just preparation for the day she gets into the driver's seat of a car, cranks the tunes and drives off laughing with her friends. If the monkey bars can keep me off my lunch now, I'm probably looking at a support group, deep breathing and likely some Xanax for the teen days to come. We'll see.