Insanity is Inherited - And not just because you get it from your kids!

This is a picture of my grandmother when she was a young woman, probably about the time she went on her mission.  By all accounts, she was a wonderful person.  She was vivacious, hard-working, hilarious and totally devoted to living the gospel.  Grandma grew up in rural Mississippi and like pretty much everyone in her family, she was a great story-teller and had a personality that filled up any room she was in.  She canned, quilted, baked bread, gardened, wrote letters,  sewed clothes for her doll collection, prepared meals for every social function you can imagine, accepted every church calling she was ever given and raised five children who are the funnest, kindest and warmest dad, uncle and aunts that any girl could ever dream of having.  But...she was also totally crazy.  Since my grandma died when she was only 59 and I was just 8, I have always felt like I was jipped in the getting to know her department.  Luckily, she kept a journal for the last several years of her life and I have a copy that I treasure.  While I love to read about her day to day activities and thoughts during this time, it also makes me sad because it is a well known fact that my grandmother literally worried herself to death over her children.  Some of them went through a phase where they weren't living the gospel as she wished they were.  Some of them didn't get the kind of grades she would have wanted them to get.  Some of them chose spouses of whom she did not approve.  Some of them had serious health problems.  Most parents have these troubles at some point in their lives, I suspect, but she just could let any of her worries go.  And here is where I come in.  I can totally see the same issues that my grandmother had with anxiety and parental control in my own life.  I cannot watch a sporting event that my children participate in without becoming so anxious that I cannot feel my fingertips by the end.  I have to take a deep breath each of the three times a day that I check Chad's Snap Grades Account to summon the courage to discover what I might discover about his grades.  I feel an ulcer coming on when I get the email informing me that Aaron's progress report will be coming home from school that day.  I find myself nagging them constantly about homework, practicing piano, filling out Eagle applications, lifting weights (don't ask), wearing rubber bands and head gear.  I try to stop.  I really do, but it is nearly impossible.  By this past Sunday, I had stressed myself to distraction about the fact that my freshman does not seem to care nearly as much as I think he should about his scholarly ambitions.  So later that day, when I checked his grades and found that he had received a bad grade on a project that I had begged him to let me check before he turned it in (he assured me that it was absolutely not necessary), I totally lost it.  I will not tell you how much I yelled and stormed around the house but suffice it to say that the low point was when I not so calmly suggested that if Chad wanted to grow up to be a loser, he might as well move out and start now.  Am I proud of this?  No!  Absolutely not.  Did I feel terrible about the things I said?  Of course I did, - just like I always do when I say horrible things to my children (because believe me this was not the first time).  Furthermore, do I want to someday refuse to attend my daughter's wedding because I dislike her choice of a husband?  Or do I want to encourage another daughter to divorce her husband for the same reason?  Or do I want to write a letter to my son in college saying, "If you're too busy to write to your mother, then you're too damned busy!"  (Okay, that one was actually kind of funny.  Love you, Grandma!)  Most importantly, do I want to die young of a heart attack because I 've become too depressed and anxious about perceived disappointments  and hopelessnesses to care about or attend to my own health?  No, no, no and no.  But boy, stopping the crazy  sure is easier said than done.