flashquake Nonfiction

ORGANIZED WORRIES
Susan B. Townsend

Seventeen years ago, after the birth of my oldest son, my family engaged in the time-honored discussion that begins with the question, "Who does the baby look like?" The decision was unanimous.

"He has Susan's eyes," Aunt Charlotte said.

My grandmother lifted one of the tiny hands. "Long, slender fingers," she said. "Just like his mother."

"He looks exactly like you," my mother announced.

This should have pleased me, but I wondered how deep this resemblance went. Secretly, I hoped that the similarities ended on a physical level. I have certain personality traits that I wouldn't wish on anyone, much less my own child. Specifically, I worry and I organize things. A lot.

Worrying is part of my job description. I'm a wife, a mother, a writer, and a worrier. If I worry about something, I've taken care of it. At first, my husband tried to help and sent me emails from work with sayings like, "Worrying is the single biggest waste of time."

I told him it's too late. I've been worrying for just over forty-seven years. I probably worried in utero. I looked around and worried how I was going to get out. At birth, I worried about my mother's milk supply.

When I was eight, I found my mother's old nursing textbook. Within days, I suffered from half a dozen ailments. Clutching my chest, I told my mother I had a heart murmur. When my ankle ached, I had bursitis.

I allowed equal time to other areas of deep concern. What about all those baby sea turtles trying to make it across the beach to the ocean? What about the elephants trying to evade the ivory poachers? What about the earthworms on the sidewalk in front of our house after a rain?

My desire for order also emerged early in life. I inventoried my Barbie collection regularly and began to frequent office supply stores. I wanted a tackle box for my birthday, not because I fished, but because I loved all those little drawers.

Gabe grew into a bright and sensitive little boy with, much to my relief, no apparent worries. Then one day I noticed him sorting his action figures. I looked around his room, at the books piled neatly on his desk, at the shoes lined up in his closet, and I shuddered. Oh no. That made three generations of organizers.

It started with my father, the man who alphabetized his grocery cart. Apples at the front, tomato soup at the back. He couldn't walk past his CD collection without making sure they were all lined up, just touching the edge of the shelf. I think of him every time I straighten the cans in the pantry or vacuum the cutlery drawer.

Gabe's worries and puberty arrived at about the same time. One of his favorite topics of concern is global warming. If he hears the word "unseasonable" in the weather report, a grim look appears on his face. "See, I told you," he says with a satisfied nod. "Global warming."

"Are you worried about biological warfare?" he asked one night after we watched the news.

"Not really. A little, I guess," I replied, trying to be honest.

"So you are worried."

I decided that screaming, "No," and running from the room wouldn't help. "I honestly don't think you have anything to worry about," I said. "But sometimes in life, you just have to wait and deal with something when it happens. If it happens," I added quickly. "Big if. Very big if."

"So you're not worried," he said.

"No. I'm not worried." I'm going crazy, I thought, but I'm not worried.

A few days ago, he told me he had a rash. "Where?" I asked.

He pointed to the inside of his jean-covered thigh. "Do you think I have anything to worry about?" he said.

"Can I see the rash?"

"No." His tone of voice suggested that I had completely lost my mind.

"How am I supposed to tell you what I think it is if you won't show it to me?"

"I don't want to show it to you. I just want to know if I have anything to worry about."

Three days and three lotions later, we were still having conversations several times a day about something I had yet to see. When he stopped talking about it for an entire afternoon, I had to ask. "How's your rash," I said.

"Oh, it's gone. What's the weather supposed to be like tomorrow?"

Gabe will leave for college in less than a year, and I'm worried. Oh, I know he'll do well. He's smart, capable and he'll definitely be organized. I just don't know if we can afford the three or four long distance calls he'll make home every day to find out if he has anything to worry about.

Copyright 2003 by Susan B. Townsend

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