So I’ve determined
that it’s a Momma’s job to worry.
We worry when they’re in our bellies.
Is he kicking enough?
Is he getting enough nutrients?
Was that bath I took too hot?
Is he facing the right direction?
Will he be healthy when I deliver him?
And then, when they are born we worry even more.
Is he growing enough?
Is he eating enough?
Why isn’t he sitting up yet?
Should he be walking?
How long will his fever last?
Am I reading to him enough?
Should I let him watch television?
Do we pray enough together?
Why won’t he sit still?
Have I baby proofed everything?
Should I let him eat that?
Is he too old for a bottle?
How do I discipline him?
Does he understand what I’m saying?
Should I have him in preschool?
Will he make friends easily?
Why won’t he eat meat?
Or any food, for that matter?
And there’s nothing quite like a Doctor’s appointment
to really amp up the stress.
Without fail, at every checkup
my heart starts to race when I see the Doctor open his folder,
and I know what’s coming next…
The “development” questions.
The series of questions he asks to see
how Baby W is coming along.
Every time, I worry.
Worry that he won’t measure up,
that his “percentile” won’t be in the norm,
that I will somehow be responsible for
setting him back.
And this last Doctor’s visit was no different.
Doc: Does he alternate feet when he walks up stairs?
Me: Uh, we don’t have stairs?
Doc: Well, when you’re around stairs what does he do?
Me: Uh, I guess he crawls up them.
{my palms are sweating as he jots something down in the file}
Doc: How many teeth does he have?
Me: Uh…a lot.
{ugh, I should know this one}
Doc: Ok, I’ll just count them later.
{fyi: he has 16–which basically makes him a baby werewolf}
Doc: How many words does he use in a sentence?
Me: Excuse me? {did he just say “sentence”}
Doc: How many words long are his sentences?
Me: Um, he doesn’t use sentences–ever. But he can say Ma Ma {I say with a half smile}. Does that count as two words?
Our Doctor half smiles back.
Me: How many words long should his sentences be?
Doc: Well, he should be regularly using 2-3 word sentences to communicate.
My heart hits the floor.
I’m lucky if he uses 2-3 different words a day.
The doctor notices how pale I have gotten so he puts his arm around me and utters his famous last words:
Doc: But I wouldn’t worry about it too much…
Right.
But its my job to worry.
