Most of my friends would describe me as a worrier; in an affectionate way of course, e.g. “she’s super fit, hilarious and occasionally worries about really cool stuff”. Since the boys arrived on the scene my worries have got even cooler and not at all bat shit crazy. Over the course of a week I had the following irrational musings:
Monday – Walk around Victoria Park, along the canal. Shit, what if the ridiculously tall buggy falls into the canal? I would dive (flail) in but my swimming skills are piss poor…which would I rescue first? Would anyone help me? I decide it is best to walk as close as possible to the wall and let the runners and cyclists risk it by the water. Dad offers to take them for a walk without me – shit, what if they fall in when he’s got them?! I tell him to walk as close to the left as possible, he assures me he will. I make a mental note to email iCandy about how they test their prams with regards to canal safety.
Tuesday – MUST stop reading Daily Mail ‘news’ section and stick to articles about former Ex On The Beach contestants. After extensive research into the Madeline McCann case, I run upstairs to check boys are breathing/there. Immediately regret it; they wake up wailing like banshees.
Wednesday – take overground for the first time; what if my pram gets caught in the gap between the train and the platform? What if the train speeds away with the pram stuck in the side?? Decide if the chasm is too big to leap across I will just tell my friend all the trains were cancelled…I give dirty looks to the three able bodied teenagers who squeeze in the lift with me. The gap turns out to be manageable (approx. 12cm).
Later on, same Wednesday – walking back from station and decide to take scenic route through the park, storm Doris is in full force, debris everywhere…I have learnt from Daily Mail that debris is fucking dangerous. People die from debris. What if a tree falls on the pram? What if a rubbish bin flies into it? What if debris swirls into a mini debris tornado and sweeps the boys away? Debris no longer sounds like a word.
Thursday – walking in the park and a large dog bounds up and sticks his head into the lower deck of the pram…I freeze in fear, maybe they smell tasty to these wild beasts? What if the dog bites off his arm? What if he thinks it’s a chew toy?? Dog owner laughs “oh he’s just curious” as they walk away…I fake smile and vow to hunt owner down and kick her in the shins.
Friday – stay in, outside is too hazardous. Sid rolls off the bed as I am looking directly at him. I realise my ineptitude is far more hazardous than debris will ever be (but at least he can roll over).
In between all this I have the other normal concerns – are they too hot, too cold (google how quick babies can get frostbite), are they getting enough vitamins, can they choke on their own vomit, what if I drop one down the stairs (need to stop carrying them both at the same time – I am alone all the time, there is no one to impress), what if I sit on one, what if they find the mystery place where the kirby grips go and try and eat them….oh god it’s too much.
Writing this has not had the desired effect of freeing me from my worry prison. I am off to hatch an escape plan in case of a home invasion…hopefully the deodorant/lighter/fireball thing I have seen in movies will work…
*UPDATE: I have now deleted the Daily Mail app and am now two weeks “sober”…I feel both wise and virtuous.