This afternoon I got ready to drive Hubs back to the airport so he can go back to Kansas. (This is the fifth straight week of business trips. He says the end is in sight.) We waited for The Kid to get off the school bus, and Hubs gave him a hug goodbye.
“Wait, he’s not coming?” I asked.
“He’s 13. He can stay by himself.”
That was my cue to ratchet up the anxiety level to Red Alert. Not because I’m worried that The Kid would do anything he shouldn’t do while we were out. Not because I’m worried that he’d run into blood-sugar issues while we were out. Not because I’m worried that someone would try to rob the house while The Kid was the only one home.
I was freaking out because this trip to the airport was happening at the beginning of rush hour. And the airport is in another state. It’s 30 minutes from home, but it’s in another state. And what if there was a car accident? Then The Kid would be home alone for God knows how long until someone could get to him. Especially if the accident happened on the way to the airport.
I’ve been home for almost 2 hours and I still clench up inside to think of it. This cartoon sums me up perfectly:
Now, obviously I got back here just fine. But that trip home from the airport, while I was alone in the car, was a tough one.
I wasn’t paralyzed enough to keep me from being able to make that drive. But I certainly had a hard time getting past those irrational thoughts that kept me from making a mildly-stressful trip in only a mildly-stressed state of mind. And the whole time I was well aware that I was making a mountain out of a molehill.
Yup. I’m a mess. And I have no idea how to stop it.