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My Fault

© Kristine Raymond

As I watch my nine-month old baby grow into a precocious toddler, I cannot help but remember those first few agonizing days, when my daughter seemed frightfully small and fragile.

I remember vowing to never take her life for granted. Yet here I stand, watching her crawl, stand and babble without giving a second thought to the fact that she is alive and seemingly healthy. Of course, her charming, as of yet toothless smile makes me bubble over with affection, and her proud attempts to stand independantly thrill me to no end. Though I have come to expect this rapid progress, each new day is accompanied by a new and delightful surprise. Everyday, Morgan-Faith takes a small step away from her mother and a huge stride toward becoming the independant person God has created her to be.

"How can I falter after everything we've been through?" I ask myself.

"How is it that I get impatient with being mommy all the time, when I was once so close to losing her?"

It isn't as though I have forgotten the shower of blessings that have accompanied my daughter's conception and birth. It isn't as though I will ever forget standing by my premature baby, watching helplessly as the diruectics affected her body, casting jaundice and frailty upon her delicate appearance. I will always remember waking up every five minutes, racked with worry that her little heart would simply stop beating the moment I let my guard down.

Now, there is no medication. There is no frailty. My daughter is healthy and whole, with the exception of a very loud mumur and the tendancy to perspire excessively. I get impatient with her whining sometimes. I feel exasperated at my inability to lay her in her crib without nursing her to sleep.

I have become a "normal" mother.

But the guilt continues to persist. I do not think about it everyday, nor do I allow it to infringe upon the strong bond that I share with my daughter. Yet I am always worried that I do not do enough to stimulate her development, or that she may be adversely affected by the negative "vibes" emitted by my occasional (frequent?) bouts of frustration.

I am painfully afflicted by the "fragile child syndrome". My pediatrician warned me to treat my daughter like a normal child, and I usually succeed in doing so without obstacle. It is not difficult, as Morgan is bright, inquisitive and bold. But I still find myself bringing the stethoscope to her chest from time to time. And I worry when she is congested or lethargic.

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