my detective skills

poor boy, if only there were a cure for your mother (I was trying to find the right fit for my niece's headband)

Before having a baby I was content with the unanswerable. I didn’t necessarily need to know where I picked up a virus or how I got that bruise (see last week’s confession of our clumsiness) – I just needed sleep and orange juice, to not hit that spot while sore.  

Upon having a baby I need an answer for everything. I must identify, analyze, and cure every sneeze and cough, every minor rash and tiny scratch. Is it dry skin, an allergy, or something far, far worse? My imagination, already hard to control, now runs wild. Within the confines of my mind, a hiccup becomes deadly in a matter of five seconds.  

And so, summoning all I have learned from Miss Marple and Sherlock Holmes, I take to the internet, I reach out to other mothers, I call the pediatrician at all hours of the night. And in every instance, by the time I have compiled the opinions and come to a diagnosis of my own, the scratch is gone or the cough has ceased.

Note From Scott: Just a friendly reminder that Sherlock will be back in January and is the best show on television. Thank god they waited until Clay got a bedtime.