I spent most of today worrying about my baby boy Corey. He's not much of a baby anymore as he will turn 30 tomorrow. Still, he's my baby, and I can't help but worry sometimes. Today my worry was prompted by not finding a "Happy Easter" message posted on his Facebook page and by his not responding to a text, actually two, I sent.
Of course, my husband thinks I'm silly to worry, but Corey understands. He finally responded with a message detailing his work schedule and school obligations. He's at the end of a Veterinary Tech program and has been working with large animals in addition to his other job obligations.
As Corey says, It's "human nature" to worry about those we love.
Sometimes I forget this.
I forget the mom's tendency to worry when dealing with a student with a self-diagnosed case of "senioritis," whatever that fantom illness is and however it manifests itself.
When I began teaching, I vowed to do all I can to be the kind of teacher I'd want for my own children. I think about that often.
I think about how these young men who sit in my classroom are sons of moms.
Moms just like me.
Moms who worry.
Moms who see their baby boys as their baby boys.
Moms with the natural, human tendency to worry.
Moms of seniors who will one day be men on the cusp of thirty.
Since it's National Poetry Month, here is one of my favorite poems about a son, and although my son is a grown man, we moms feel a sense of loss when our sons leave the nest; thus, the theme of loss seems appropriate as I think about my youngest son and fleeting time:
"On My First Son" by Ben Johnson