Many parental worries are of our own making

In tomorrow's Briefing:

Friends and I often talk about how difficult it is to be a parent.

We worry about discipline, values, self-esteem, homework, relationships, bullies, drugs, alcohol, materialism, technology, nutrition, health, safety.

We worry about what we can control and the staggering circumstances we’re certain we can’t.

But my concerns have been slightly adjusted by a little perspective, courtesy of a weekend getaway to Belize. I was reminded that most of the worries we middle-class American parents harbor are little luxuries.

When you travel through villages in Belize, you can’t help but notice the children. They’re often walking on the road (which is almost always bumpy or broken or gravelly), instinctively dodging cars and trucks. There are no sidewalks.

And yet I fret about my 5-year-old playing in our suburban front yard, where a sidewalk separates grass from smooth, paved road. Most of our walking route to and from school is on a greenbelt completely sheltered from traffic. We have crossing guards at busy intersections.

Health care in the Caribbean country is spotty. The expat who served as tour guide one day told me about his district’s two hospitals — one is marginal, the other just a little better. A doctor from a bigger town keeps occasional office hours.

Here, we’re able — and sometimes too eager — to visit a pediatrician for any case of the sniffles or a sore throat. If our own clinic is closed, we just find an urgent care center that isn’t.

The same expat, who’s lived in Belize since 1989, told me that there are no bookstores nearby. No opportunities to take children to the theater or symphony.

Meanwhile, you’ll find me occasionally grousing, “There are too many books in this house and not enough places to store them.” I might even complain that there’s too much to do, too many choices on a weekend and not enough time to fit in the museum trips and performances we’d like to attend.

I will probably never stop worrying (or, sadly, stop complaining) — not when my two children are in college or even when they’ve started their own families. My worrying is part of who I am, as a person and as a mom. I’ll always want the very best for them and will always feel the need to protect them.

But I needed the reminder that so many of our developed-world problems are of our own design.

We worry about our children appreciating what they have, yet we keep giving them more. (Seriously, we could operate a satellite Lego store from Cooper and Katie’s playroom.)

We complain that other people’s children (never our own) have poor manners, yet we’ve collectively allowed kids to withdraw from everyday conversation by mollifying their complaints of boredom with handheld video games and iPhones.

We ignore experts who advise we limit screen time.

We shake our heads at statistics about overweight and obese children, yet we drive kids just about everywhere, keep them inside because we’re scared of them being out on their own and ply them with snacks and sugary drinks.

Our enormous blessings come with even greater responsibility. We shouldn’t feel guilty for enjoying enviable infrastructure and public services and private privileges. But we should acknowledge that most of what we complain about is manageable — and often manufactured.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. E-mail her at tyradamm@gmail.com.