He’ll be fine.
It’ll be fine.
My daughter only weighs 5 pounds more than him and she’s FINE.
I knew someone with clubfoot and he’s fine.
My preemie was never in isolation and she’s fine.
FINE. FINE. FINE.
Yeah, he’s mostly fine. I am not fine. This may turn out to be nothing. I hope to God and all the other powers that be that it turns out to be nothing. But if it is something? What then?
Someday, I will learn that when an acquaintance asks me how I am the truth is almost never a good idea.
“How are you today?”
“Aw, it’s a pretty spring day. Why are you just OK?”
Because I’m waiting to hear if my child has a serious condition and the specialist appointment is still 3 weeks away. Because, I just don’t feel fine today.
I need to let it go. I need to stop the negative cycle so I don’t beat myself up when (hopefully) everything is fine.
The difference between me and some other moms out there? There have been 4 (5 if you count the scary pregnancy) years of moments when a ton of crap wasn’t FINE.
Because I actually like and respect this person, I went with a bit of truth. (mistake)
“Because we have to add a specialist from Children’s to Drake’s care team…again.”
Then, I had to give more of the story than I really feel like telling. I really want to be that optimistic mom, the one who is unshakable and believes the best until the worst is confirmed. Unfortunately, being positive is something I suck at.
To top it off, he only ate about 300 calories yesterday. GRRR.
Poor blog, I only feel like journal-ing when I’m “sad mad.”