Can't Fool the Genes

Y and I come from very different schools of thought when it comes to worrying. I was raised in a "Just call if you have time, but we won't worry unless you give us reason to," kind of environment. Y's family is more like "Call the second you get there, and until you do we will assume your plane has crashed and you are lying helpless, bloody, and near-death in a 120-degree desert somewhere. So do us a favor, and call immediately, so we don't worry ourselves gray because of your negligence."

With a family-practitioner and diagnostician in the house, we didn't get to indulge "possible" health issues much. The first time I had to deal with different doctors and varying opinions was when I was in the hospital giving birth to Elan.

At Y's house, possibilities became likelihoods. If you had a headache, take two Advil. If you've got one two days in a row, you see a neurologist, because chances are, you've got a brain tumor. If said neurologist claims you're fine, question his qualifications. Get second and third opinions. Better safe than sorry.

They are, in other words, major worriers. And Y - though he tends to get instantly claustrophobic when anyone nags him out of concern - is an allstar in the sport. I made it clear early on in our relationship that I can pretty much look after myself, and that gave him an emotional break for a short time. But as soon as we had children, he began anticipating every single possible injury, every single possible worst-case scenario, every single day. His anxiety on overdrive, and my Virgo logic intact, his constant checking and re-checking and making me re-check to make sure the child-gate by the stairs is locked, began to drive me insane. And with his mother assuring him that not only were his fears valid, but rational, and had he even thought about XYZ?, I did what I believe most daughters-in-law would do: I blamed her.

Nature vs. nurture, the age-old debate, right? Y's mom swore to me that while perhaps when he was young and already exhibiting classic chronic-worrier symptoms, she might have encouraged Y to be less clingy to her, in general he was just naturally this way, that she was naturally this way, that her own mother, may she rest in peace, would consider her reckless. In other words, the problem was mostly trans-generational, genetic: that I had no idea what I was up against.

When Elan came into this world filled with anxiety over every new situation that confronted him, over-thinking each step and confronting me with lengthy and seemingly logical explanations about why "different" is actually REALLY TERRIFYING AND RARELY NECESSARY, I could not relate to him in the least. Still can't. Y, however, claims to understand but-exactly how Elan feels when he clings to me like a fish to water, when he breaks down over the thought of going somewhere new with his grandparents without me, or like today, when he refused to go to school because they were going on a field trip (the first ever, granted), on a bus, for which he has no frame of reference because he's never been on one before and survived. While Y has his opinions on how much and how little we should indulge Elan's nerves, and we try to talk to him, to soothe him, as best we know how - we don't always have a choice because the tyke has Iron Will - sheer determination runs rich in his blood.

Y always laughs that while Elan resembles me, and Ariel him, their personalities are reversed. He always complains that I'm too spontaneous, too impulsive, but he seems to enjoy that young Ariel exhibits the same take-on-the-world-and-don't-look-back kind of attitude. And I get Ariel - the bruises on his shins from a dance around the coffee table gone-wrong are ALL TOO familiar to me.

Like me to Y, Ariel is a natural counterpart to his brother, and the two of them are already quite close. For example, Elan tries to get him in trouble, gets excited when I threaten to put Ariel in a time-out, but then can't cope with the sight of Ariel crying [*he does this when he knows he's being punished, face collapsed in hands, even though the "punishment" is nothing more than me placing him on the couch for a minute - oh, the drama], and will inevitably "free" him, end the time-out in a panicked hurry to soothe Ariel, wipe his tears away, make him laugh instead. I allow this measure of parental-interference, because, frankly, nothing makes me prouder.

And I am often woken in the morning to Elan, rising a half-hour later than Ariel (who is already making headway on Sesame Street), noticing that Ariel's crib is empty, rushing into my room yawning and bleary-eyed, the concern in his voice palpable: "Mommy! Do you have Ariel??!"

Like father, like son. My Grandpa Mel used to say you can't fool the genes. I say, nurture needs to put up a damn good fight in the face of nature.