Ann and I pride ourselves on being rational people. When we were told that Ann’s health would be jeopardized unless we delivered Sage almost five weeks early, we nodded and signed the papers. When my job vanished and I was told that my choices were a severance package that might have lasted me six weeks or a different, more unpleasant job with the same salary I had been earning, I had a couple beers and a sleepless night, and I signed the papers. (Rational doesn’t necessarily mean that you don’t feel your feelings, just that you don’t make hasty decisions based on them.)
But there’s a minor problem with Sage. It’s a correctable problem, and we’ve already talked to the doctors about it. Her health is not in danger, her development is not in danger, and I’m only choosing to NOT reveal the specific issue for two reasons — I haven’t asked Ann about whether or not to talk about it publicly, and I really am not seeking out advice from non-medical personnel (which is most of you, dear readers).
So please believe me when I tell you that it’s Not A Big Deal. On a scale of 0 to 10, with 0 being “she has a teeny tiny broken fingernail” and 10 being “please sit down before we go over the results,” this is like a 2 at the most. Probably a 1.5 or less.
But now comes the trick of rationality.
It doesn’t feel like a 2. It feels like a 6 or 7, because we’ve been extremely blessed that our biggest problems with Sage have been not wanting to eat when she was in the NICU and having nasty blowout diapers, so in comparison this feels like OH MY GOD WE’RE FAILURES AS PARENTS.
Which is stupid. We’re pretty darn good parents. So far. If I do say so myself.
So, rationally, I remind myself that this is NOT significant, and I shouldn’t freak out. So I don’t freak out.
Except that now, I’m concerned that I’m overcompensating and UNDERestimating the problem, and maybe it IS more like a 6 instead of a 2 and I’m not letting myself be worried ENOUGH.
At least in my darker moments.
Sage is fine. She’s happy and healthy and we’re keeping an eye on anything that seems to need attention. But man, oh, man. I’m not freaking out, except in those moments when I freak out about not freaking out.
Well played, self-sabotaging subconscious.