Don’t be a Wemberly

Ella Schulte, News Writer

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Growing up, I received Kevin Henkes’ children’s book, Wemberly Worried, not once, but twice as a birthday gift.

If not familiar with this piece, its storyline is centered around a small female mouse, named Wemberly, who spends her days consumed by the uncontrollable and inevitable fears of which tomorrow could hold.

A passage taken directly from the book states,“‘Don’t worry,’ said her mother. ‘Don’t worry,’ said her father. But Wemberly worried. She worried and worried and worried.”

For I am a Wemberly and most everyone knows it.

When I was five, I was the kind of kid who would let one bad haircut ruin my entire year.

When I turned ten, I blew out the candles on a cake fearing that someone would snap a picture of me with my neon blue braces showing.

At 15, I worried about fitting in  amongst my classmates and now at 17, the daunting task of deciding on a college doesn’t seem too far away.

Every Saint who has passed me in the halls has most likely glanced at a girl who is enthralled in a frantic power walk and absorbed in a premeditated routine.

In addition, one might notice the wrinkles lining my forehead, each one representing an empty checkbox on a never ending to-do list, scribbled inside of an overpriced agenda, with a pink Paper Mate pen moments ago.

At first glance, I might look to be someone who leaves nothing up to chance, and I am, but with this notion comes great sacrifice.

I’ve missed one too many Friday night football games and family Christmas parties, and instead can be found double checking a rubric on Canvas or emailing a teacher.

These moments, these could-have-been, vulnerable and distance memories, I’ll never get back.

“‘Don’t worry, says my Mops. Don’t worry, says my Pops. But I worry. I worry and worry and worry.’”

So, accept the C- on the impossible AP Bio test, fail the Spanish oral, take the nap and cuff the khakis.

For if one doesn’t manage to unfold and untangle their jumbled up priorities now, life will always get in the way.

 

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