It hit me the moment we tried to put my son in his first outfit and then folded his impossibly tiny body into a car seat that looked as it would swallow him whole in one bite, entirely defeating the purpose of protecting his 3-day-old self from the horrors of the car and traffic that was our next task to navigate as new parents. I will never stop worrying, I cried while Charlie bawled as we click the chest strap into place. On the short ride home from the hospital, I tearfully insisted that I ride in the backseat, my arms wrapped around the car seat. Once home I told my husband I would never drive with our child ever again. That promise was short lived, but my seemingly unending wave of worry has yet to cease. Charlie, despite some questionable intentions that usually involve roof-skateboard-hammer-rope, hasn’t succumbed to the various fears I keep clutched in my heart. Four years after his birth, I was no less anxious performing a similar routine with his baby sister and even though our family had expanded from three to four, the tsunami of worries swelled beyond the mere doubling of children.
At the campus of Flathead Valley Community College where I teach college writing, I spend my semester with students who were once like my Charlie and Darcy, tiny and wailing in their car seats, and their parents likely fussed over feedings, mysterious rashes, and cries that soothing won’t still. Many decades removed from those infant years, I also assume those same parents had similar worries that I have for my growing kids about school and friendships and their ability to be a kind, curious, and dependable person. At the root of this worry is less about my kids and more about me: Am I doing the right thing? Am I messing up my kids? What if I have it all wrong?
Perhaps these same parents and parents everywhere, despite the age of their offspring, ask the same desperate questions.
I may not have any certainty about my own parenting, but after semesters on campus and reading scores of student essays about their beliefs and assignments in which they identify their role models, my students rave about their parents. Yes, you read that correctly. Your children adore you, applaud the sacrifices you made — some of you working multiple jobs to send them to college or moving them across the country in the hopes of a better quality of life. Your children write about how you expressed your love with bedtime stories and the courage single parenting demanded. Your children cite you as their inspiration to pursue a degree in nursing because that’s your job, you do it well, and they have long observed you’re skilled and talented at taking care of others. Often, despite the wide age range in my students, these essays about a sense of self, an evolving belief system stem from what they learned from their parents. And they aren’t afraid to write of their appreciation for what you have done for them. You’ve modeled hard work and determination; you’ve created opportunities where they learned how to earn extra money to buy that piano they want while also creating a college savings fund. You took them camping, to the library, and snuggled with them on the couch to watch movies.
Perhaps you’re beset by worry but please let me assure you, these kids are alright. And they’ve done it and are doing it because of you. I tell my students that they should share their essays with their parents and I’m not certain if they are or not. But let me tell you, you are their role models. You don’t have to worry about that.