I've spent the last 13 1/2 years of my life worrying, it's not easy being a mother, even less so of 3 vivacious boys.
This weekend I was teased heartily for taking a safety boat out to ensure that my son and his friend had cover whilst learning to sail their 29er. Cries of they will be fine, what's the worst that can happen? In my head. Lots. That's what we do mothers, worry.
Possibly what they had failed to realise was that I'd been sailing that morning in a Hartley 12 that was heavily reefed to counteract the gusts and crazy winds of Storm Imogen. Reefing the boat meant that I couldn't point up to the wind and I ended up parallel parking against the dam wall. My knees were bruised as was faith in my sailing ability.
My son, my baby, now aged 13 was taking this beast of a boat, which was utterly unsailable in my newly adjusted opinion. I mean what could go wrong. If I could only crouch in a heavily reefed learner boat, what hope did they have? Entanglement, cut heads, bashed limbs, ok, let's not go there..
I ignored the remarks and set off in the safety boat. My, Oh, My. What a spectacle! The boys had the most exhilarating sail, they caught the gusts, massive smiles beamed across their faces as they trapezed and hung out of this truly ridiculous boat. They capsized lots. Were they hurt? No. Did they need me? Once. The mast was stuck in the mud and I needed to give them a gentle tug out of it. That's 1 - 0 I think doubters. I was clearly required.
Seriously, we won't always get it right, we only try our best. I thought the worrying would lessen with age, as it turns out, it only gets worse as they try more demanding things which are beyond my personal ability.
Bring back the days of endless jigsaws, CBeebies and sticky fingers. No chance. I'm firmly in the camp of terrified mother.