I think it’s fair to say that it’s a parents’ job to worry. I couldn’t imagine a time when my folks haven’t put the safety of my brother and I first.
Whenever I’ve been out and about, I try and keep at least one of them somewhat in the know of where I am, followed occasionally by a text or a phone call letting them know when I’m heading home. I can imagine they act similarly to most other worrying parents – the side light in the house is always on for me coming home, the blinds at the back door are never fully shut and one of them is normally still awake in bed to make sure I’m safe. I appreciate that so much, I really do, but soon I feel there won’t be the need for it any longer.
Next year, I’ll turn 20 and, believe it or not, I’ve changed a lot in the three years since I started gallivanting about Falkirk when I turned 17 and learned how to drive. Admittedly, I was a bit less streetwise than I am now and understood the need for worry on my parents’, particularly my mum’s, behalf. Within the past year or so, I’ve managed to grow up enough to travel all over Scotland, north-east and north-west England and still make it home completely intact. Perhaps at the age of 17 I wouldn’t have managed that but, now that I’m on the brink of womanhood, I’m pleased to say I have. I get myself home, no matter how late at night or early in the morning, in one piece. That’s the point I’m trying to make.
Realistically speaking, mums and dads will always worry about their children, no matter how old they are.
But the message I’m trying to get across as a very soon-to-be 20-year-old is that, nine times out of ten, we’re OK.
I understand it’s a parent’s natural instinct to worry about their children but please remember we’re very nearly grown-ups too. Turn off that side light and get yourselves to bed.