Hypomomdriac

They say that admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery.  With that in mind, I confess; I’m a Hypomomdriac. What is a hypomomdriac? That’s a mom who worries that every sniffle, every cough, and every minor symptom her child displays, is cause to call or run off to the pediatrician. Just watch her perform the fifty-meter mad dash to the doctor's office – you’d award her the gold, no doubt.

This is the same woman, mind you, who could have a limb hanging from her body and still stop to unload the dishwasher and cook dinner before seeking medical attention. She has no time for self-concern. Actually, she has no concern left to spare, it’s all been expended on her children.

I think I worry too much. And then I wonder how all this worrying is affecting my child. So basically, I’m worried that I’m worrying too much. This of course, worries me, too. I’m no expert, but I think I need an intervention.

Last week my little girl woke in a fit of coughing. This lasted about an hour. By the time the doctor’s office opened two hours later, her cough had long since subsided. I called anyway.

“Hello Mrs. Gauvreau,” the receptionist answered.

Hmmm...they must have caller ID.

When we saw the doctor that afternoon, my daughter was not only well, she was bouncing on the exam table, singing and laughing. It was like she was auditioning for a Broadway Musical.

“I feel silly, “ I explained, “she seemed to be congested this morning.”

“Well…” he answered. And that was it. A sentence fragment. A single word. Not even followed by the obligatory It’s better to be safe than sorry line.

Not that he needed to finish. I could tell from his tone that it was actually “Well…since you mention it, you are being silly. Just like you were being silly three weeks ago when you thought she had Pink Eye because she winked at you, and the month before when you brought her in to check for allergies because you thought you heard a sniffle when she pet the neighbors dog and the two weeks before that…”

That’s right, I can read a lot into sentence fragment with a tone.

Best for him to just leave it at “Well…” lest he risk offending his best customer.

I check in with the nurses before leaving the office, thanking them for their services and commenting on the addition of caller ID.

“Oh we don’t need to look at the caller ID, Mrs. Gauvreau, we recognize your ringtone.”

I chuckle at this little joke.

“No, really. We have your number set to it’s own special ringtone.”

I have my own ringtone? Oh the honor. I really am their best customer!

“Yeah. It’s an old Patsy Cline tune. Crazy. Perhaps you’ve heard it?”

I’m not sure what to make of this, but I think maybe I really do need that intervention. But I can’t do it right now. I think I just heard a child sneeze.