In Response to “My Kid is A Rockstar” Comment

Last night’s post about my middle child and his venom allergy shots drew my first ever negative comment.  That  is, the first negative comment someone actually took the time to reply to on the post.  (And, of course, the immediate retort below said negative comment from one of my closest’s who is actually a real-life freelance journalist.  I remember the first time she got reemed in a reputable online publication. I was all fired up to get her literary back!)

And, I am not entirely sure it’s not my husband who was the anonymous commenter.  He deplores the dramatic, which is kind of a unfortunate, because I can be…dra-ma-tic.  In my defense, I see myself as more of a recovering dramatic.

Regardless, this is my mea culpa.  I meant no disrespect to the children enduring chemotherapy, dealing with spinal cord injuries, severe brain injuries and the like when writing about our measily standard Wednesday.  There are so many heroic children that deal with catastrophic illnesses that I can’t even comprehend.  Last night, as I wearily sat down to my laptop, I intended to write a witty post about a trite subject, but my day’s events poured out instead.

I should really eat crow here.  I can’t imagine being a Mother to a truly sick child. As only a Mother would know, it’s the worry.  We worry constantly.  We worry if they have friends to play with at recess.  We worry if they are the last to get picked for kickball.  We worry when they get on the bus.  We worry that they write their numbers backwards.  It comes with the territory and I have yet to meet a Mother who doesn’t worry about something, anything concerning their child.  Having said that, I worried about mine yesterday and chose to express it.  Unlike the anonymous commenter, I signed my name to my thoughts.  Because this commenter chose to stay anonymous, I can only wonder what they are suffering to have found my post bothersome.  And that makes me feel worse.

Earlier in my career, I worked hands-on with many clients who were cared for at the Shepard Center in Atlanta, suffering from catastrophic spinal cord injuries.  I worked with many Mothers who had babies with brain injuries.  I worked with Mothers whose babies, whose children had died.  It’s not something that easily is forgotten from ones memory.  So I agree with the comment, both in it’s spirit and in it’s caution to me – I’ll be more cognizant of the fact that my life is cozy and as The Old Man around here often says, “all of our problems are little problems”…..and then I’ll sign my name.

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