I have a confession to make. I sliced my daughter’s grapes way past toddlerhood. I hovered over my fearless child, as she climbed the monkey bars. I never allowed popcorn or peanuts to touch my young child’s lips. She was never out of my eyesight, even for a minute. To put it simply, I was an anxious mom.
Being an anxious mom was easy for me. I had been an anxious child. I had been an anxious teen. It seemed only natural that I would be an anxious mom. But now I not only had myself to worry about. I had a small, bundle of love to protect.
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