Will I ever stop worrying?

I’m worrying.

Master Frugal has just gone to the beach.

With his friends.

And no adults.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, he’s left his phone at home as he didn’t want it to get damaged.

This leaves me, pacing the floor in the living room debating with myself whether I’ve done the right thing letting him go on his own, worrying whether his friends are all sensible enough to know what’s safe and what is it all the while trying to decide whether it’s acceptable to go for a little drive to the beach just to check on him.

I’m also worrying about all of the potential dangers of the beach including everything from stranger danger to jellyfish and from playing in the sea to falling down a hole and ending up in Australia (joke. kind of).

There’s even the possibility of him tripping up a sandcastle, cutting himself on a seashell or even being attacked by a vicious crab to consider.

I know that he’ll come home when he’s hungry and will then spend the whole meal time telling us how much fun he’s had (between whining about the beach full of sand that he brought home in his shoes) and then he’ll be off out again, no doubt testing me further by asking if he can go a bit further than I’m comfortable with or to somewhere else he’s never been before.

But I still can’t help worrying about him.

I worry about him more than I worry about his older sister funnily enough although I think that’s probably because he wants to do more than she did at her age. His friends are more adventurous and want to be out and about exploring whereas Miss Frugal and her friends at this age were happy with the odd trip into town to look at the make-up.

I’m silly, I know I am but he’s my baby and it’s my job to keep him safe.

Edited: Four hours later, he’s home, he’s hungry and he’s tired. But he’s had a great time and wants to do it again tomorrow!

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