Having The Munch be sick makes me realize how much of a worrier I have become. This new sensation of “worrying” is totally new to me, because I never worried about myself. I have a history of being quite experimental with my own health, always opting towards holistic healing and pagan practices. I am “that” girl who would dance in the woods with elfin creatures to rid my sore throat, or who had a yeast infection for a month because I refused to take the “white-man’s” medicine. But now that I am responsible for someone else’s health, I am finding myself in such a quandary. Do I treat her health like I would treat mine?
With such a young baby, there is not much you can do to help them besides natural remedies… but if I could, I feel like I would streamline her with Nyquil if it meant she would stop coughing. Maybe I am just saying that because her pain makes me feel so desperate… but it is hard for my worry to not morph into obsession.
Did I mention that I am sick too? Because I am. Do you want to know what I a really awsum time is? I sick baby and a sick mom… I digress….
I used to obsess about things in my life that caused me anxiety. Work stress. Relationship stress. Stress about stressing out too much. That did a sufficient job of keeping me tossing and turning. Now that I have a baby, and it is my responsibility to keep her alive, my fears have morphed into mental images that would make Stephen King books look like Dr. Seuss.
And it is not just because she is sick. Of course, her fragile state has highlighted my awareness, but I feel like I often lie awake worrying. I envision my day, and then all the things that could have ended in catastrophe. To even explain a few makes me quiver with a dread so deep it chills my soul. Ahhhhhh just writing about it is turning my eyebrow hairs grey!
Like falling down the stairs while holding her… or walking on concrete and tripping… Ahhhhhhhh I can’t continue. I can’t go on!
Okay. So you get the point. I never understood what it is to worry about someone until now. I can totally relate to those Italian Dad’s who wait in the living room with a loaded shotgun for their daughter to come home before her 7:30 curfew. Ummmm, make that 6:30 for me.
(That is The Munch worrying)
