This Is What Negligence Looks Like

I've always been something of an obsessive worrier. Then I got pregnant with Ella. I fretted about every single tiny thing that could possibly be a sign of something wrong. And then, about 20 weeks into my pregnancy, I started spotting. Just a tiny bit, but someone as neurotic as I can be only needs a tiny bit of something to create a great big worry. I had a doctor's appointment scheduled anyway, so I headed over early, convinced the entire time that I was losing my baby. Melodrama. So I'm at the doctor's office, and before we even address the spotting, my OB starts reviewing notes from an ultrasound I'd had the week before. "Did they tell you about the baby's heart?" she asked.

As it turned out, Ella had a spot on her heart, which is what they call a "soft marker" for Down's Syndrome. I can't even begin to tell you how much worrying I did over the next 20 weeks while we waited for her birth. I swear it just wore out my ability to worry. Once Ella was born healthy and happy, I just couldn't sustain that level of worry anymore. I mean, those of you who know me might think I currently worry a lot. But you have no idea what I USED to be like.

And where my kids are concerned, I really don't worry nearly as much as I could. It just seems like a deep, dark hole from which you might never return. There are so many things one could worry about. So many things that could potentially happen. There is no way on earth I could have left my kids with virtual strangers (and let's face it, no matter how well you research a childcare provider or a nanny, there are simply no guarantees--not like the guarantees you feel like you'd have if you just stayed home in the first place) from the time they were three months old. You could spend all day obsessing over the "what ifs," and I simply don't. I just don't go there. I have friends who worry about the possibility of guns in the house when sending their kids for playdates. Others who hesitate to leave their children with anyone other than family. They research the latest data on vaccines, visit millions of schools before selecting the perfect one. These are good, smart women and excellent mothers. I don't blame them one bit for worrying about these things. But I just don't. Some of this stuff never even crosses my mind. I'm way more likely to worry about sleep patterns (and only insofar as it affects MY ability to sleep) or behavior issues (and this only because no one wants to have the sassy, smart-mouthed four-year-old that tells her parents they are stupid--but she's mine all the same) than I am to use only organic cleaning products to avoid exposing my children to harmful toxins or to worry about whether or not the varicella vaccine is a smart choice. I don't bat an eye at the extensive use of red dye #5 on the birthday cake. And I'm certain that my children don't wash their hands nearly as often as they should. This is not to say I don't do my fair share of worrying. But any time I DO find myself worrying about the nanny crossing the busy street by our house to take the kids to the park or about Ella swimming in the pool at summer camp, I just have to stop before my head explodes.

So I don't worry. Much. And I seem to have taken that in the completely wrong direction, wherein I turn into slacker mom of complete negligence.

Example #1: My baby falls off the bed and cracks her head open. Accidents happen, you'll say. Undoubtedly. Accidents and two-year-olds go hand in hand. But did you know that Sadie has fallen off the bed playing the same exact game she was playing the night 'o the staples not once, not twice, but at LEAST three times? A mom who spent a little more time worrying about silly things like safety might have kept Sadie and Ella from playing said dangerous game anymore.

Example #2: My first-born scrapes her heel on Friday while riding her bike. It's just a small scrape, so I throw a band-aid over it and forget about it. I didn't clean it out. I didn't even inspect it all that thoroughly. Earlier today, Ella complains to Dean that her heel hurts. Turns out, the little scrape is now red and swollen. Oops. I put a call in to the pediatrician's office, and the nurse asks me if the wound feels hot. It does. I am thinking that somehow this is not a good sign. I was instructed to put antibiotic cream on it and to bring her in tomorrow if it's not better. It's probably infected.

Say it with me, people: Slacker Mom.

I can tell you I'll be more careful in the future. But maybe there's only so much you can do. At least that's what I'm telling myself tonight!