The 25-Year Check-Up; Confessions of a Chronic Worrier

The day I hit 75, a friend said to me: “Have you performed the quarter-century assessment yet?” It seems that when her grandmother turned 75, she sat down and wrote what she called a quarter-century checkup, i.e. what she was like at 25, 50, and 75, and how she had changed.

The idea of leaving a written assessment for future generations struck me as being a bit over-the-top, and reminded me of my grandmother’s description of one of her young nephews: “Well, he’s a bright boy, but a bit too fond of the first person singular.”

On the other hand, it occurs to me how useful it might have been had my darling grandmothers left me some idea of how the heck to deal with growing old. They both made it to 98, and while I doubt I’ll live that long, it might be instructive to learn how they retained positive attitudes, as they did despite the loss of loved ones, never mind the physical miseries of ageing.

I’m pretty much of an in-the-moment person, but perhaps, I thought, it’s time to consider calmly where I’ve been, how I’ve changed, where I’m headed.

Herewith, a list of quarter-century discoveries: The biggest surprise, for me, is how little some things have changed. The one that really stands out, alas, is a tendency to worry.

Of course, I don’t remember the start-date, i.e. my birth and first year. From pictures, I see that I was a chubby little blonde with fine, wispy hair. From my baby book, I discover that I was an early and endless talker. Those things still pertain, although I control endless babble better these days: the years of suffering from foot-in-mouth disease were instructive.

25 (a very smug Ms. Know-It-All discovers she doesn’t)

I had a great job with a great boss, but I was thrilled when I discovered that I was pregnant. I had some worries about my marriage and my finances, but figured I could deal with them. I turned out to be right about both worries and dealing, but they shook my confidence mightily.

My firstborn thrived despite his inexperienced mom, and brought me nothing but joy. Well, make that joy and more worry, and circles under the eyes. My aforementioned great job meant I lived several hundred miles from other family members who might have helped out. The baby was hungry every 2 ½ hours, and he didn’t know that weekends are for sleeping late. He and I survived, mainly because he was a swift learner, and quick to forgive.

During the next 12 years, I was at home, a full-time mom to three sons. I learned what real worry is, i.e. something endemic to a mother of three limit-pushing boys. Over the years, the Emergency room doctors who could stitch up cuts or set broken bones came to know us well.

By the time I went back to paying work in my late 30’s, I was living in another part of the country, and starting a new career as a teacher. Except for motherhood and having once been a student myself, nothing had prepared me for teaching. My first jobs had involved editorial work, with long hours and short vacations. Working in a school afforded me the same schedule my children lived by. I decided to start my teaching career with the youngest children, because I figured that kindergarten would be (a) easy and (b) fun. I was totally wrong about the easy part, and there were plenty of times it wasn’t fun (try being thrown up on, or searching for the missing tip of a child’s finger after someone slammed the bathroom door on his hand).

I loved the children, mostly, and the companionship of my fellow teachers, ditto. From both students and peers, I learned things that no Department of Education could ever have taught me.

50 (Top of my game, sort of, but still learning)

By the age of 50, I was a pretty good teacher. I had learned to juggle school and home fairly well. I was still a worrier, especially as my sons grew beyond the reach of my eagle eye (and occasionally even of the telephone), but now I also worried about my parents and stepmother. My stepfather had died a few years earlier, and now my mother’s health was beginning to fail. My father and stepmother were also having serious health problems, 2500 miles away from me. It was a strange period of learning to let my sons go with as much grace as I could muster, and at the same time finding a way to ease back into my parents’ lives without seeming too bossy.

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The 25-Year Check-Up; Confessions of a Chronic Worrier

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