My poor, paranoid husband.

My dear husband suffers from a condition known as Papaparanoia: the symptoms include freaking out when the kid cries ("Why is he crying? There must be something wrong."), assuming the worst case scenario for every freckle, blotch, and scratch ("What is that, skin cancer? It doesn't look normal.") [okay, I made that one up], and creating mountains out of nonexistent mole hills, ("Whats wrong with his eye? Why can I see the veins in his super-pale, thin, baby eyelids?").

Okay, so I'm making Scott the butt of a joke here, seriously, he needs to loosen up. I'm home with The Kid every day all day and have developed a knack for knowing what stuff to sweat. For example, puffy eyelids are an unsweatable thing. A little puff doesn't signify pinkeye - it signifies "baby's been rubbing his eyes again."

However, if I hear Roland in the crib hacking and coughing, I sprint back there quick as lightening to turn him over and make sure he doesn't choke on his own spit-up (a peril of back sleeping, I suppose). I have my limits.

Last night, I had to put my foot down when Scott suggested we put a helmet on our child because his head is a little flat in the back. You want me to put my kid in a helmet? Let's just get him a hockey mask. Same thing, right?

The kid has a little flatness. Um. That's because he sleeps facing the ceiling. It'll round out when he picks a side to turn to. Besides, Scott has a flat head in the back, as do at least one of his sisters. (My head, mind you, is perfectly shaped as far as I can tell through all this hair.)

I just can't make it seem serious enough to worry about it. He's pretty symmetrical and it's not like his soft spots are fusing before they should. He just has a flat head.

Honey, chill. Or at least learn to take my word for it.

Posted by Tiffany at February 21, 2007 12:57 PM | TrackBack