Worrying can be the most difficult part of the parenting experience

Before my children were born, they kept me awake.

Deep into the night, I lay there staring at the ceiling, my hands on my belly, my mind on all the things that could go wrong. It wasn’t like I could do anything about any of the things I worried about, but I worried just the same.

It didn’t stop after they were born. I tossed and turned when they were babies. I lay awake when they went to school. When they learned to drive I got out of bed to pace the floor and peer out the window. There have been a lot of sleepless nights in the 21 years since my first baby arrived.

Lately, my son has been on my mind.

At 19 he’s enthusiastic and indefatigable. He works hard and he plays hard. Sometimes at the same time.

Now, in the busiest part of the firefighting season, he’s working 12-hour shifts on a crew fighting forest fires. He heads up to the scene, signs in and gets busy putting out, and mopping up after, the fires that have been raging through the region.

That’s when I go on duty, too.

When he drives away, in a car that’s even older than he is (something else for me to worry about) and takes off for a burning forest somewhere deep in the interior of the state, he’s got his mind on a million things. Like just how far he can go on half a tank of gas. (Farther than you’d think.) And how far he can go with a half-empty stomach. (Not very far at all.)

He’s thinking about the job ahead of him. He’s thinking about his girl.

I doubt he wastes much time worrying about the bad things; the worst things that could happen to him.

That’s my job.

One of the earliest parenting chores is keeping watch. You creep into dark bedrooms, lean over the side of a crib and listen for each newborn breath. Satisfied, for the moment, you tiptoe out only to come back in later and do it all over again. Babies sleep while we stand guard, a sentinel against any harm that might befall them.

That’s just the beginning.

We stand at the end of the driveway and watch them pedal away on bicycles. We hand them the keys to the family car and then watch as they drive away. You keep them in sight because you can’t look away. It isn’t true, of course, but every parent harbors a secret belief that as long as you have a child in your sight, or on your mind, you can insulate them. As long as you’re awake, worrying about them, praying over them, willing them to be safe, you’re protecting them.

If only it were true.

Every time my son walks out the door, I watch his car disappear. Then I turn and walk back into the house, smothered by worry.

He heads off for another adventure and I get ready for another long night.