Worry -- by Liimu

It sometimes seems no matter what I do, no matter how many post-its or To Do lists or Outlook reminders I have set up for myself to stay on top of the things in my life, lately I have still been waking up at 1 or 2 in the morning unable to return to sleep for thinking about what I've forgotten to do. This morning, at 2 am, it's this blog that on my mind. Don't feel bad, readers. Yesterday, it was something else.

I truly believe that this just as drinking is said to be the symptom of the disease of alcoholism, and not the issue itself, waking in the middle of the night anxious about having forgotten something isn't the problem. What it is that I've forgotten isn't even necessarily the problem. The problem is a lack of acceptance. Earlier today (okay, now yesterday) I was talking with my sister about a friend of hers who is dying of cancer. All the things I had just been ranting and raving about - my worries about upcoming tax payments, my skin now breaking out again because I gave in to my dairy cravings even though I now know I'm allergic, the aches and pains that come with age - suddenly seemed trite and unimportant. I told my sister how much I appreciated her sharing so candidly about her friend and how it reminded me that I need to be grateful and not get bogged down with my own privilege problems. She said, "You don't even have privilege problems. You have privilege non-problems." It's true. Lately,

I have been worrying and complaining about things that aren't even real. It's the perception of how things are going in my life that is the problem, not how things are going.

The trouble is, my perception of things can actually be quite aggressive in staking its claim as a card-carrying member of the club for Things That Are Worth Worrying About. It has the right to do that, but I am the one who decides who is granted access to that club. Just for tonight, I'm restricting access to the things that really are worth worrying about. And as I fall back asleep, meditating on all the things I have to be grateful for - my husband and children, my home, my job, my health - taking a welcome break from my incessant worry prayers and spending the extra time saying prayers for all those around me who have real problems that only real prayer can solve.

Won't You Be My Baby? by Jamie Levine

Although I’m almost 40 years old, I will always be my mother’s “baby.” So, of course, I often look at my 28-month-old toddler, and still think of her as the helpless little infant she once was. But, as Jayda constantly reminds me, herself—when she pees in the potty or swings from monkey bars—“Jayda, big girl now!” In fact, she’s so ”grown up” that when she sees a smaller child in a stroller (a vehicle she, herself, shunned long before the age of two), she calls him or her “a baby”—even if she’s only mere months older. And the smaller the child, the more enamored she becomes, and the more she wants to help take care of the “baby.”

I know all the babies at Jayda’s day care by name—from the infants to the 18-month-olds—because Jayda insists on visiting them all in the morning before she goes to her classroom, and, again, in the afternoon, before we go home. When we visit my friend who has a daughter Jayda’s age, as well as an almost-one-year-old, Jayda generally shows more interest in the baby than in her contemporary. And, when we go to the playground, Jayda always stops her climbing and jumping and swinging as soon as she sees a stroller glide by. She’ll run over and peer inside, and refuse to do anything else but stand and watch the baby.

At home, it’s the same story; Jayda has an arsenal of toy babies whom she dotes on, night and day. There’s “little baby,” her very first doll, which I let her pick out from a shelf full of options at a toy store (and who happens to be African American), and “big baby,” a giggling, bottle-sucking doll that was a birthday present from a friend. There are also countless other dolls and stuffed animals whom she calls her babies, all of whom get fed and cuddled and dressed by Jayda with care.

Both friends, as well as strangers who have observed Jayda’s behavior, have joked that I “need to give Jayda a baby sister or brother.” And, I do believe Jayda would be a wonderful big sis. But I don’t have the desire—or the resources—to have another child. Being Jayda’s mom is the best thing I’ve ever done in my life…but I don’t feel the urge to do it again. No other child could be a more perfect match for me than Jayda. But, as someone who grew up with siblings, I sometimes wonder if Jayda is missing out on anything by being an only child. And when I ponder this, I try to find comfort in something a wise friend once told me: Just because a child has a sibling doesn’t mean he or she will be close to that sibling. I have two siblings…a sister whom I adore and a brother whom I dislike. Sure, I love my brother because he’s my family, but has having him as a sibling enhanced my life? Definitely not. Would I be ok without him? Absolutely. So, there are no guarantees that giving Jayda a baby brother or sister would also mean providing her with a lifelong friend.

Lifelong friends aren’t born…they’re made. And so, I try to surround Jayda with people who love her…people whom she can count on when she needs help and support. People who will do all the things for her a good sibling can do. And, of course, I also try to befriend people who have babies of their own: babies we can visit—but whom I don’t have to take care of, too.

Guest Blog -- by Rochelle Jewel Shapiro

My father wanted a boy. Unfortunately, he had three daughters instead. When I, the third daughter, was born, he said, "Another girl!" He lost his voice for six weeks.

Maybe it was better than what he might have said if he could speak. They waited seven years to try again, because they thought that seven was the magic number that would change their chemistry and their luck so that they could finally produce a son. And it worked, probably coincidentally. But my mother was forty-two by then and in 1954, that was considered quite late for motherhood. But my oldest sister was sixteen. Rumors shot around the neighborhood that my brother wss really her illegitimate child. My big sister was mortified.

And my mother had her consequences as well.

"What a young grandmother," people would say to her.
"No, I'm just an old mother," she'd tell them sadly.
And then people would snicker crudely. "By your age you should know how not to get knocked up," a man in a hardware store whom she didn't even know said.

My mother would sit up in her grave and applaud if she knew how many women today are having children over forty and even later. And she would be thrilled to know how much you support each other. It's better than wearing ear plugs as she'd threatened to do so that she wouldn't have to hear the remarks that people were so free to make back then.

Rochelle Jewel Shapiro is the author of Miriam the Medium (Simon & Schuster) which is selling in the U.S., the U.K., Belgium and Holland. Her essay, Ess Ess is just out in Feed Me: Writers Dish About Food, Eating, Weight, and Body Image. (Ballentine Books, 2009)