In the almost 18 months that I’ve had a Friday guest, I’ve only featured one other guy besides today’s feature. Because for the most part, this is a community of women. But, it’s nice to hear from the “other side” now and then. And today’s guest fits in so well in the mom blog world. Please welcome John from The Adventures of Daddy Runs a Lot.
On the whole, I’m not a worrier. Typically, if I am worried about something, we’ve moved beyond the point where worrying would be proper and we’ve moved onto the stage where worrying is useless and action is required.
But, lately, I’ve found myself worrying. More specifically, about two years ago, I started worrying. What’s worse is that I’ve been worrying about stuff that, well, you absolutely can’t control. Worrying, typically, is useless . . . but, sometimes you worry over something and you come up with a plan to actually change the course of the thing you’re worrying about. But, there are tons of things that will just play out – and worrying about them is just pointless. Of course, it’s those things that I worry about.
I worry about my job. I worry about the number of hours that I spend working it. I worry about losing it and how I’d provide for my family. And I worry, just as much, about keeping this job for forever, because I don’t have the “this isn’t really work, but I get paid for it” vibe that I once convinced myself that I’d have . . . and that I hope my children grow up knowing.
I worry that the line between “daddy” and “husband” gets blurred and lost.
I worry that I don’t do enough at home. I worry more that I find myself longing for “peace and quiet and just a minute to myself” when I am at home. So, there are times that I get home and try to do everything – and long more and more for just that minute of silence. And, once that minute of silence is attained, I worry that I’m being reclusive.
I worry when I reach for a beer or a glass of wine – both in the fact that I might not have any more beer or wine, or that there’s some part of me that feels that I need it.
I worry that something will happen to me, and my kids won’t remember me. So, I work out in the extreme early morning, and over lunches, to try to make myself as strong and healthy as possible.
I worry that my “five year plan” is nothing more than “let’s wait and see,” but, honestly, I can’t see much past the next week.
I worry that I’ll lose my phone, and with it, lose any track of the weekend commitments I’ve made to my band, or couples getting married, or community theaters needing a musician. You’d think I’d keep better track of my calendar because of this (ask me, some day, about my photo backup strategy if you want to see a fully anal-retentive John), but I trust worry to do it all.
I worry about my two year old son not speaking yet. I worry that he’s well on his way to becoming a superstar athlete, and I worry about the constant worry I’ll face about him getting hurt because that.
I worry about the speed at which my daughter figures things out, and the way that, even at 17 months old, she’s quite clear about what she does not want. I worry about her being far smarter and more motivated than I am.
I worry about my kids having their hearts broken.
I worry that I’m not doing enough for their future educations.
I worry about my kids finding out just what kind of student I was.
I worry about my kids becoming fans of the Dallas Cowboys. Or worse, the Oakland Raiders.
I worry about the way I eat when I worry, which makes me want to reach for another donut, which makes me worry more, which makes me daydream of nachos.
I worry that I now want nachos. Badly. And maybe some wine. After a donut, of course.