I just finished reading a blog post about car safety and children that might as well have been titled "The 10 Ways You Might Die Today and Other Fun Factoids." In this post, the author explained that, if I have anything lying loose in my car, it will become shrapnel in the case of an accident, with CDs turning into ninja throwing stars and earbuds becoming garrotes. And as I sit here basking in the article's afterglow, which has rendered me clammy and pale, I’m faced with the certainty that the umbrella that’s in my floor board will automatically deploy itself and impale us all if we ever again venture down the driveway.
But this isn’t an isolated incident. It seems like every day, my Facebook newsfeed, email homepage, DVR, and Twitter account (I should really get outside more) are all loaded up with warnings about the dangers that face my children if I dare to let them out of their beds in the morning. As someone who’s diagnosed herself with three types of terminal cancer and a flesh-eating virus this year alone, I really don’t need your help to not sleep at night. (But, hear me now, one of these times, I’m gonna be right, and on that day, my tombstone will feature a solar-powered version of the GIF below and an inscription reading, “I told y’all!”)
Anyway…………
I’ve absolutely reached my threshold for mom panic. Just today I caught the tail end of some show that I should have known not to watch because it was called “America Now,” and nothing good can come from dwelling on American now, but it was naptime, and the remote was all the way on the other side of the couch.
So, Bill Rancic (who apparently anchors the fake news now) comes on to introduce a segment about toddlers and sippy cups, and my spidey-senses start tingling because my toddler uses a sippy cup — what do, Bill?
Well according to a lady dressed in scrubs with unverified credentials, I’m not supposed to give Molly a sippy cup after the age of 1 (epic fail) because she may walk around with it and fall. Long (and horrifying) segment short, best case scenario, it will become lodged in the roof of her mouth until the end of days; worst case, they’ll have to surgically remove her front teeth through her nostrils. Admittedly, they didn’t say it so graphically or really even mention the nostrils thing, but they didn’t have to; I could tell that’s where they were headed.
Instead, she’s supposed to already be using a lidless cup, only while seated at the table during mealtime. Shhheeee-iiiiittttt...next you’re gonna tell me that I shouldn’t let her use a steak knife or eat little pieces of her napkin. Back off, Nanny 911; this is the real world.
Now, some of you may already be following the no-sippy initiative, and kudos to you if you do. The lady in scrubs is definitely a fan. But Molly is on the go too much for me to strap her down every time she needs a drink, so the only reasonable solution was for me to invent this (patent-pending):
On to over-the-top example, part deux.
Do you know what can ruin a beach vacation faster than Sutton’s Borat impression?
Reading an article link about dry drowning on your second day there, that’s what. This situation was made far worse by the fact that Molly likes to eat pool water (panic-inducing habit #234). After each chlorine craving, she would come up spluttering like a politician, which led me to spend every night of our so-called vacation watching her sleep Edward Cullen-style. What’s worse, when she woke up in the middle of the night, as she is sometimes wont to do, I was forced to wave my hands in front of my face while saying, “Doodloo-doodloo-doodloo…This is all a dream” in my best Wayne Campbell voice. It was humiliating.
Even now, three months later, if she chokes on her apple juice or splashes too vigorously in the tub, I feel obligated to place a 24-hour ban on lying horizontal.
Nope, there’s no way to win. The world is a minefield, and unless I plan on my children living here forever (which is sooooo not happening), I’m going to have to face the truth that I can’t protect them from everything and, just like I have to pick my battles, I have to pick my worries as well. Otherwise, I can go ahead and add heart attack to my list of self-diagnoses and finally be right for once. (Psych…it was just gas.)
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