Peanut’s first birthday is a week away and I’m panicked.
Not about the party (that’s worthy of a whole other post), but that something is going to go wrong with peanut. It’s almost like his warranty is about to run out (because you know as soon as your car/stereo/computer/whatever warranty ends, the damn thing breaks the next day). Every scratch, bruise, heat rash, diaper deposit has been cause for intense inspection this week.
I have applauded myself so far this year for not needing to call the pediatrician all that often. I admit to doing it a few times in the beginning for non-issues. After all, he’s my first and they freak you out with all the counting of the poops and pee and temperature taking. But after a few middle of the night moments and reassuring words from the nurse on call, I felt pretty confident that the little peanut was doing okay and learned what the important things were to call about. Oh, what a laid back mom I am. I can totally handle this mom thing.
All of a sudden I’m convinced that everything is an indication of some horrible problem. And it doesn’t help that the kid is trying to figure out how to walk and is bumping into things left and right (usually with his head), and his knees are rubbed raw from tearing down the hardwood hallways at warp speed on his knees, or that it’s the summer in the South and so of course he has a bit of a heat rash in the folds behind his knees.
I realized I have a problem when I found myself wondering if his feet are too small.
I thought about this for a good half-hour.
I almost wrote it down on the list of questions for the next doctor’s appointment. Right behind “tell me straight, doc, am I good mom?”
Because I think that’s what it boils down to. The first year is all about survival. I kept him fed, clothed, cuddled, well-rested. He seems to be happy. He smiles a lot. He giggles. He gives great hugs. But all of a sudden, as I realize he’s about to enter toddlerhood, I’m as nervous as I was when we brought the peanut home and didn’t have a nurse on-hand 24 hours a day.
Soon he’ll be talking back and I’ll need to make sure he understands concepts like sharing and compassion and empathy and that it’s not good to drink the toilet water. What if I stink at this part of mothering? What if he likes the taste of cat food better than my cooking? What if his feet really are too small?
But then I figure I didn’t know what the heck I was doing a year ago this time when I was sitting around, eating ice cream and just waiting to go into labor. I’ve got a whole year of mothering under my belt, a ton of great role model moms with fabulous toddlers and a terrific partner in crime (aka the hubby).
And I’ll try to keep in mind that they don’t include feet measurements on the growth chart, so peanut’s little piggies are probably fine…right?