Compassionate disservice?

I just couldn’t bring myself to blog last Friday because I didn’t want anything to replace the great news about Lil’ Gee’s birth. (And if you haven’t caught on, I take the weekends off to do other things, like mod podge and make pies.)

I’ve been the proud aunt all weekend, checking every 20 minutes for new pictures via email and pictorials on our family blog. (Which is a closely-guarded secret that can be found at … wait, you tricked me!)

He is handsome. See for yourself:










(Sorry, Mrs. Gee. I couldn't resist!)

I’m so in love with this guy it’s a little weird, seeing as I’m already so in love with my own little girl. Who knew love could be found in such abundance? Heaven must have given me an extra dose of baby love to compensate for my lack of other features, such as night vision and quiet dignity.

Also found in overabundance: compassion.

No, I don’t mean that I’m naturally prone to whip up casseroles for ailing friends, visit the poor and down-trodden or even remember other people’s birthdays. I’m actually horrible at those things.

But when it comes to feeling bad for someone, I’m all over it.

Like, when I think about my sis enduring the hardships of new motherhood, it makes me almost sick to my stomach. The thought that she is likely losing sleep or figuring out baby cries or enduring sore … stuff makes me so upset. I don’t want her to have to do those things. I want to do them for her. I’d rather have my baby be horrible and spare her anything but the occasional night waking in return. (Actually, I’d rather we were both getting a good night’s rest but that’s another thing I’ve got: a trial complex. As in, I expect that I have to endure something horrible to get something good. Or if something good happens, obstacles are on the horizon.)

Like, I once saw this episode of “Different Strokes” where Arnold and his buddies pretend to befriend a mentally handicapped janitor as a joke. And when the janitor figures it out – OUCH – I can still make my heart ache thinking about it. I feel so bad for him. Yes, him – a character … played by an actor who got paid to mess with my heartstrings.

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Seeing someone trip. Watching a sports player make a bad play. Hearing lil’ Miss Dub cry. Anyone with a challenge, handicap, illness or hardship. All of these things keep me awake at night feeling bad.

I have this idea that somehow others can’t possibly endure hardships. I’ve been sick before. And by sick, I mean diagnosed with multiple odd diseases and ailments. I’ve also been sad, lonely, depressed, tired and cranky. And I’ve survived. Yet, I somehow think others won’t make it. That it will be too much for them. That their pain will be overwhelming and impossible.
And that thought is what hurts.

So I hurt for them. And I lose sleep for them. And I obsess over their predicaments (real or potential). And I listen to Mr. Dub tell me to relax. And I think about relaxing but instead get hung up on compassionating. (Wow, that’s actually a word. I thought I made it up until spell check pass it o’er.)

But in all my worrying, I rarely make a casserole.

But if I do, anyone have a good recipe?