I saw a pop up ad on the web the other day called the “Baby Generator.” It invited me to upload a picture of myself and my baby-making partner and it, in turn, would send me a picture of our future baby. I never do stupid things like this. Well, I never used to do stupid things like this but I had exhausted my usual means of procrastination (i.e. refreshing my email, upsetting myself on facebook, adding things to a shopping bin on www.modcloth.com that I never actually order).
So I uploaded a picture of myself:
And then I uploaded a picture of my husband:
And within just two minutes, the Baby Generator spat out an image of our adorable future baby:
Granted, biology wasn’t my strongest subject in high-school but I think the Generator might not be 100% accurate: there is just no way my husband and I could make a baby that is that tall! (or, cute?)
I’m not actually all that curious about what any future child of mine looks like, because it’s no difference to me, really, if their hair is curly or straight, if their eyes are blue, brown or purple like those fake contact lenses. I just like the notion of certainty. I think I would sleep a lot better at night if I knew how my entire life is going to turn out. Someone please just tell me how it’s all going to end!
I remember a doctor once reasoning with me about the futility of worrying about the future. Since I never could have predicted my mother dying the way she did, the doctor said, there was no point in worrying about it. Of course there was no point, I told her. And by suggesting that it’s the accuracy of my apprehension that should guide me, that the strength of my predictive abilities matters in any way to my peace of mind, means that she doesn’t get the point. Yes, it’s true that I didn’t know my mom was going to die so precipitously and I never would have guessed the cancer she ultimately suffered with, but I always worried that something bad was going to happen. And something bad did happen. My failure, in this instance, wasn’t in worrying; it was in not worrying enough! If anything, what the doctor taught me, was that I need to expand my worries. My fear can’t be so generalized. I need to worry about all manner of terrible things happening to everyone I love and care for at any given time, like: illnesses, extraterrestrial aliens disguised as humans roaming cities, a comet or an asteroid on a collision course with Earth, snake-like graboids emerging from underground and eating people, the sudden appearance of an oversized, paranormal, marshmallow man with a red necktie.
I have to do this because I don’t want to be caught off guard. I don’t want to be going about my merry way and be ambushed by sadness and its army of anguish. I need to be ready for it. Like a boyscout, I need to be prepared. So when my friends wonder about whether their growing fetuses will have their mother’s nose or their father’s eyes, and they gush over the adorableness of teeny tiny baby socks, all I can think about-God-forbid-is all the possible things that can wrong.
I’m so tired.
My mom once told me that she would sometimes read the end of a really good book first, just in case she died before she read the last page she would still know what happened. I remember the two of us laughing about it at the time, joking about her extreme fatalism. What’s the point of skipping ahead, I asked? Don’t you just miss out on the beginning?
I don’t want to miss out on the beginning by being so fixated on how things are all going to unfold. So I am trying to tell myself that no matter what happens, if there is an outbreak of a Category D virus for which there is no known cure, if cloned dinosaurs escape from an amusement park or if I find myself in the eye of a twister, I’ll be able to handle it. I’ll be able to face it all.
As far as I know, as my mother slipped away, there was no story ending she worried about. With all the cliffhangers she left behind, in the end, she knew they would all turn out okay. I like to think that she had faith that I would turn out okay.
Thank you for artfully taking us from the particular (your very cute black baby) to the universal (the human penchant for being on guard, i.e. worrying). Unlike you, who seems to be progressing from all-consumed worrier to sensibly-bemused worrier, I used to be a low-grade worrier, but have improved my worrying skills immensely over the last number of years so that I now spend a fair amount of time anguishing about all manner of feared outcomes. I will continue to monitor your chronicle in the hope of being able to re-learn how to laugh about my own foibles and recapture the ability to enjoy the suspense of unknown endings.
Thank you so much! I do hope you will be able to return to your low-grade worrying status. It’s scary to think that my worrying could get worse as I get older. Now I’m worrying about worrying!
I don’t worry about much except our retirement (we don’t have a retirement plan and my husband retires next year), and how much dog food I will have to buy and disguise it as breakfast cereal. I also worry about how many more speeding tickets my one son will get, and if my oldest will survive Army boot camp at 30 years old (what was he thinking??). Oh, and what fishing lures my husband will get me this Christmas.
It WILL work out…it always does.
Perhaps, S.L., you could outsource your worries to me? I will stay up at night thinking about these things for you and you and your husband can enjoy retirement. You are so right-it does always work out. It’s an important mantra. I just know that your son will drive a little slower, that your oldest will not only survive but thrive at bootcamp and that you and your husband will sit back and bask in their achievements over fancy morning waffles. (I wouldn’t share them, though, with the dog. The last time we gave him a bit of our breakfast we ended up at the emergency vet!)
This is a terribly funny, yet incredibly insightful post. I never used to worry about anything…just floated from one wonderful experience (that eventually turned awful) to another. I for one am glad we don’t know how life plays out beforehand or we might not want to go through the whole hoopdela to the finish line! I love how your mom wanted to read the end of the book first. She must have been a funny character too!
You’re so right Annie. Much better not to know and just hope for the best. My mom was a very funny character. I feel blessed to have (hopefully?) inherited her humourous outlook, but it sure would have been nice to have gotten her long, pretty legs too!
Much like the genetically unlikely product that would result from the two of you having a baby, the results of two or more series of events in one’s life can have such differing and dramatic outcomes. So I try not to worry but my penchant for worrying comes from my long-gone grandmother – I just know it. I never worry for my own future, I worry insessantly about my 3 kids: did they remember their lunch? will they get home from school safely? were they bullied today? did they bully someone today? will he pass Math? will she stop that slapshot? it’s too much somedays! And you know is all you get for this? Wrinkles! That’s all.
I don’t even want to think how much I’ve aged myself with all this worrying! If it’s any comfort, even if your son doesn’t pass math, he can still grow up to have his own blog. I’m living proof! There, one less thing to worry about.
Defensive pessimism or catatrophizing?