I'm Not Crazy

Dear Son,

It is 11am. You have yet to get out of bed. Usually, if you sleep until 9, I say that you've slept late. Thats not entirely the point of this post, however. The point, darling, is to assure myself that I'm not losing my mind.

No less than 5 times in the last two hours I have crept into the room where you are sleeping to . . . to make sure . . . . to make sure you are still breathing.

I should be enjoying the silence. I have a very demanding exam to study for, and I have been - but there continues to be a knawing at my insides - way in the bottom of my stomach. I'm trying to write about electromagnetic fields and the index of refraction within a vacuum, but this little voice inside keeps whispering, "what if he's not ok? What if he somehow wrapped his blanket six times around his head, thus restricting his airways, and that somehow doesn't wake him and alert him to cry out?"

The rational voice in my head, of course answers, "He'd cry out."

The paranoid voice then fires, "What if he can't cry out?"

"He would be able to cry. Or just reach up and pull whatever is blocking his ability to breathe out of the way," says reason.

"One can never be to sure," scoffs paranoia. "What if it isn't suffocation keeping him? What if . . . . if he's ran a high fever of sort, and slipped into some sort of coma or worse?"

Oh paranoia, you are an evil, evil conversationalists. I am sure that . . .

that....


excuse me, I've gotta go take another peek in at you . . . .

[just to be on the safe side.]