Since Meg was born I have worried about things I never thought possible. I have worried she is eating too little. Eating too much. Eating too much of the bad things, and too little of the good. Worried we are not diverse enough. That we are pushing diversity too much. That she isn't reading enough. That we are forcing books on her. That we spend too much time with her. That she spends too much time entertaining herself.
I could go on and on, but I think you get the picture. Or maybe you don't. I will worry about that later.
Of course, nothing makes worry worse than a sick baby -- and Meg is sick right now. I am monitoring ever move she makes. Her eyes. Her appetite. Her sleep patterns. Her ridiculously gross runny nose. When she is clinging to me. When she is not. Every slight change in temperature.
Again, I could go on.
Here's the thing though: I don't want to stop worrying. While it drives me crazy and makes me pull out my eyebrows (topic for another post), I can't imagine not worrying this way. Not wanting to worry this way. This child is the greatest gift I have ever gotten, and I want to be present at every moment -- even if some of them make me want to scream.
I guess I actually don't mind the worry. It is outweighed by so many other things.
Now, the biting, and the eye poking -- those I could live without.
Actually, probably not.