“Am I overreacting?” I chew on that question a lot as a human woman. Especially now that I have a child who did not come with any instruction manual. I’ve also never had one of these “children” before, so I don’t know what’s a true sh!tstorm or nah. So when Boychild gets ill, I have to truly weigh whether or not it’s a big deal. My mom was a nurse, so honey we NEVAH went to the doctor. I mean, rarely. We were a “walk it off” sort of family.

Having known several hypochondriacs (*cough* Bessie) has made me aware that I do not want to be one. Nor do I want to be labeled as having Munchausen’s Syndrome, or God forbid, Munchausen’s By Proxy (BTW, there is an excellent Terry Gilliam film about Baron Von Munchausen starring a very young Uma Thurman as Venus, the Goddess of Love. Robin Williams is in it, too.) I don’t want to be labeled a Malingerer or a Fabulist, as honesty and expression of truth is central to my character.

TANGENT: As a woman, I feel all of my statements, whether quantitative or qualitative are subject to scrutiny, as I am never to be believed because my emotional womb-brain interferes. Perhaps because we are guided by the moon due to our menses, women are not to be trusted, changeable as they are.

So, I am in new territory as a mom with knowing what’s serious and what’s not. Part of this is mom guilt. Like, what if he’s actually dying and I don’t take him in to the E.R. because I don’t think it’s serious and then he dies and it is ALL MY FAULT. Example:

Boychild had a 101.2 fever and was scream-crying. We took him to urgent care, but he was in so much pain I thought he had appendicitis and told Hubs we should go to the E.R. Boychild energetically puked on me and his car seat while in transit. We arrived at the ER with a vomit-soaked, screaming child and then waited in the waiting area, watching some gawd-awful Disney movie-musical about some blonde cheerleader who wanted to schtup a zombie football player. There was another family there who had a kid seated on their laps, The dad kept checking me out, but I was checking out the fact that his son had a Wubba Nubba like ours with the pacifier cut off. A Wubba Nubba, for those uninitiated, is a pacifier magically affixed to a stuffed toy animal. Our son has a Puppy Wubba Nubba. Capital P. And this family had the foresight to divorce Puppy from Pacie, giving comfort, but taking away the oral fixation, thus diminishing the need for braces. I bow to them.

The other folks in the waiting room were a young tattooed guy with some side pain (He didn’t return. Died? ) and two blokes who were chatting with their bud who was taken to the E.R. and then admitted upstairs. Come to find out, he had a heart attack. His friends brought his clothes to him and chatted about politics. Meanwhile, I’m thinking about the view from the waiting room, lucky to be holding my boy, covered in vomit though we were, and looking at the mountains.

The staff was great. Our nurse was hip, with a nose ring and long blonde hair. BC was given meds, then fell asleep on me for the next three hours. Doc came in, asked if Boychild smoked. Hubs said “no, he dips.” I added, “but he’s trying to quit.” Our poor child doesn’t stand a chance. 🙂

Hubs found many uses for an emesis bag (hat, giant condom, flag, etc.), and we played “we’re going on a picnic”. I’m bringing apples, bananas, Gregorian Monks, Oprah, .  . . We were so bored until we realized there was an actual T.V. in the room. So we watched Django Unchained for ten minutes, then we were released after spending 4 hours total in a place we could’ve avoided, had I not freaked out. We left with a diagnosis of a virus . Did I overreact? Would we have been better staying at Urgent Care? Yes. And yet. He had a fever for a week afterwards, and we visited the pediatrician. Calling the pediatrician, I kept thinking “Am I overreacting?”

He’s fine. I’m still not. “Overreacting” is something I’ve never been accused of. Yet the haunt of it prevents me from speaking as loud as I want. I always find it easier to speak on others’ behalf, but for me, as an equity- minder, I feel like if I advocate for my feelings, I’m not representing the other side.

I’ve been unhappy at work for about a year now. Like, help me, crying at work, this is not what I signed on for unhappiness. As I told a friend, “I can’t wear mascara at work anymore because I’ll just cry it off.”

BTW, it’s hard to find a place to cry in an open office area. My suggestions are: cry in the bathroom, your car, the dressing room ( if you work in a theater), or run to the local library’s audio books aisle. Always sparsely populated.

So, was I overreacting to my job situation or to my son’s illness? Having mulled this over, I think it doesn’t matter. I was reacting. Whether it was over- or under- is inconsequential because my feelings are my feelings, and I think that as a mom, I need to listen to those feelings- my feelings, my son’s feelings, Husband’s feelings- and honor them, regardless of how others might judge my reactions. I’ve moved on from my formerly beloved job and I’m not crying in my car anymore or having imaginary arguments out loud in my car. Basically, my car and my life, are more peaceful places to be. Boychild is fine, and he did not die. We live to react another day.