Letter to my daughter

I love my daughters to pieces. I try hard to guide them to make good decisions, and to provide them with information and reassurance when they get scared or things go wrong. I try to stay patient when I have to repeat myself for the 10th time, and when they respond to my advice with a repeated”no” (in a tone that says “mummy you’re a moron”). But there are some days when my patience is worn thin.

Dear Lxxx,

I have never helicopter-parented you. So yes you get to play on the playground equipment without me constantly reminding you to be careful. I understand sometimes you’ll fall and will need a kiss and a bandaid. But it’s time for the drama to end.

No you don’t need 20 bandaids on you at any given time. You can just choose to not scratch a mosquito bite. Bandaids are cheap, so it’s not about the money – though honestly I think we should own shares in the company given how many boxes I buy each month. It’s about the hypochondria.

This may surprise you but I actually don’t want a run down of each and every scrape, cut and itch. Go ahead and put on some Polysporin and slap on a bandaid if you need it. I don’t care if it’s from you over-scratching a bug bite, or if you got a paper cut. That’s just part of every day life. Get used to it.

Yes I do care if you fall off the swing and hit your head, but I actually need you to calm down so I can assess you. No you aren’t showing any signs of a concussion, but you are showing signs of hyperventilation because you won’t let yourself calm the f*ck down. So just relax and take some deep breaths. Really, you’ll feel better. Okay, we can put a tensor bandage on your wrist if that makes you feel better, but I thought you said you hit your head – that’s not exactly the same thing.

Believe me, I’ve spent many hours taking you to the hospital and walk in clinics when you say you’ve hurt yourself. You probably don’t even remember most of them because you could sleep while I rocked you back and forth waiting to be assessed. And after 5 hours of you sleeping in my arms in a hospital waiting room, you’ve been miraculously cured by the time the doctor could see you. Except that time you got a pair of crutches; though oddly you weren’t even limping while jumping, running and skipping on the playground with your friends the next day.

I’m sorry that you sometimes get growing pains, but no, believe me, you do not have arthritis or a sore sacroiliac. And no your prostate can’t hurt. And you don’t have a hernia.

I’m going to keep assessing your aches and pains, and call Nurses Line and even take you to the doctor when you actually need it. But please stop making me take you to the hospital needlessly. I can think of a zillion other things I’d rather do with you for mommy-daughter bonding time.

It’s time to end the hypochondria. And maybe go for ice cream instead.

Love you,

Mummy