Scaranoid

It's the unhappy marriage between being scared and paranoid, also known as parenthood.  Hubbs and I both get scaranoid often, and in increasing measure now that Little L has decided that running is the better alternative to walking, and running with her head looking off to the side is infinitely more exciting than you know, looking at where she is going.

So now, every corner, every edge of every wall, every uneven patch in the pavement, the floor, and oh, everything is a potential hazard.  We are finding it a two-person activity just to go for a walk with her, especially on days when she wants to walk run.  It's also extra-scaranoia-worthy when she runs with stuff in her hands, or when she runs while delirious from fatigue (because at that point, she *never* looks to see where she is going). 

We are also finding, as she gets older and grows more independent, that we are scaranoid about her being injured in public places where other children are running haphazardly.  As I've come to notice, Little L is not a big fan of loud busy places with craploads of other kids, especially ones that are in her space.  She prefers a quieter environment, with fewer kids at a time (so her gymnastics class, at 8-10 kids, is okay), as long as these kids respect her space and stay at arms' length away.  This preference works to our advantage, at least right now, since she's not all about getting into the fray with the other crazed children.  However, in situations where she's at a public indoor playground, for example, it's inevitable that some other child will either get too close or somehow manage to injure her (there's a story to go with that one, stay tuned).  Enter scaranoid parents, who want to keep her from every possible bump and bruise and scrape and fall.

This crippling condition is also not limited to when Little L is on her own.  Oh no, we get all weird and worked up even when she is out for a walk with the nanny (hereby given the moniker Miss Bee).  Miss Bee is the awesomest, most loving nanny ever, and Little L adores her.  We trust her enough to let her go for 1.5 hour walks with our baby, so that should speak to her character, right? And yet, we worry.  We hear an ambulance siren blaring as it whizzes by our home and we get concerned that Little L has been in a freak accident.  We try to call Miss Bee and if she doesn't happen to answer or get our text/call right away, we think that they've been abducted or something Law & Order: SVU-esque has happened.

Yeah, I know.  We really have considered buying Little L her own bubble, or at the very least a crash helmet for her everyday shenanigans.

But we know we can't.  And we are also keenly aware that to make our daughter an idol in our life is sinful and wrong, so we take many deep breaths, utter many prayers, and try to get some perspective.

It's hard, though, y'know?  It is hard to let our little girl go, grow up, and take risks.  It's hard to sit back and watch as she learns some things on her own, particularly when some lessons come with pain.

I think being a mommy is going to give me a heart condition.  Or it already has.