Saturday, November 15, 2014

Sometimes I hate the internets

Oh, the internet.  Sometimes I love you so much, I wonder how I survived the early years of my life without you.  I love that I can look up the name of that actor who looks so familiar in the show I'm watching right now.  I love that I can easily figure out what the heck to do with half a bunch of swiss chard and two hot peppers without having to get too creative in the kitchen myself.  I love that I can connect with other moms and teachers and women who feel and think and experience what I do. . . or who don't but are willing to listen anyway and share their feelings / thoughts / experiences too.

And internet shopping.  And subscription box shopping.  And makeup and box reviews.  And celebrity gossip.

But I don't love Dr. Google.  No, I don't like him (her? let's not be gender-biased, here) at all.  I don't like that whenever my son's not feeling quite himself, or has a weird looking poop, that I feel drawn to search it out, diagnose it, and solve it.  I don't like that I hesitate to call Telehealth or my own freaking doctor because it might not be a big deal. . . but then everything I read makes it seem like a big deal and makes me feel like a crazy person until my husband talks me down.  And, of course, until my son starts acting like his usual self and has a totally normal poop.

I don't love that even though I've done this whole pregnancy thing before, I feel the need to second-guess myself, to question what I know in my bones (and in my logical mind).  Can I have a warm bath? Is 5-free nail polish really safe? I don't remember feeling this way last time, is it a sign of impending doom?

I guess acknowledging you have a problem is the first step to solving it.  So no more googling signs and symptoms.  No more searching out problems where there are none.  No more self-diagnosis - I am not a doctor and Google certainly isn't one either.  Now, to find the serenity to accept the small things that are probably not indicators of terrible illness, the courage to seek real help for the big things that could be signs of a larger problem, and the wisdom to know the difference.

And, Google?  We can still do some Christmas shopping and gab about who we think is getting away with murder behind Viola Davis' back, k?

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