Yeah, I'm wondering if it's a side-effect of the Zoloft, as while my PPD seems to be manageable now, my brain has left the building.

Oh, that could be... I know that some ADs can really affect memory and stuff.

I just got a Google Alert that makes me very sad: [link]

This is my brother's high school choir director and football coach who really mentored my brother and encouraged him to go on and study to be a music teacher, which my brother now is and loves it. It's really sad...and I don't know what to believe...either way, it's really sad, because I know he's got good in him.

Ugh, vw. I remember you mentioned this before, and it really sucks.

I cracked my head open doing a wheelie on a Big Wheel. I painted myself with Dalmatian spots using some kind of oil-based, NowWithExtraToxins! black paint. I sliced my lip open trying to mimic my father and shave. My brother, among other things, rolled right off the top bunk straight to the floor. Scary and stressful and terrifying, for you, but for Annabel - she's gonna be fine. Calm-ma anyway.

My brother and I have both ended up in the ER for various reasons.

When I was little, around 2 maybe, I was on the porch swing, stood up to make it swing and managed to flip the swing over and hit my head

My brother has a scar on his forehead from when he fell off the dock and cut it open on a crab trap. Twenty two stiches.

I split my lip open after I fell of the rocking horse at church day care. And a scar on my arm from when a lady was holding me (I was a toddler) and she slipped and jerked me up in reflex and cut me with her earring.

Mom still get pangs of guilt over those things.

See, here's where I think that the things I obsess about with Mallory aren't entirely normal. Whether it's an aspect of PPD or just my own issues, I don't know. (I'm kinda hoping PPD, coz, medically treatable).

For instance, one of the ways the terrorists here have assassinated diplomats is by putting a live grenade between the driver's car door and the seat. When the door is opened, the pressure is released on the spoon and the grenade explodes. Almost impossible to detect. So yesterday I obsessed for a good hour about what would happen to Mallory - he probably wouldn't be killed, because I always put him in the car seat in the back before opening my door, and the grenade would probably roll out, so the underbody of the car and the seat would absorb most of the blast. But the concussive effect in my garage could conceivably really damage him, and he'd almost certainly have hearing damage. And how long before someone found him?

Having to check the car daily for more findable explosives probably doesn't help.

When I was about 5, my parents had some friends over. The friends had 4 kids, the youngest about my age. At some point, snacks were announced. As we ran toward the kitchen, my brother ran into the corner of the hallway. Several stitches in his forehead. Blood everywhere.

My freak accident involved an overfriendly collie named Puddles. A group of kids were playing tag. Puddles wanted to play, too, so she grabbed my hand. I jerked my hand out of her mouth and ended up with three stitches on my knuckle. You can still see the scar 30+ years later, if you know it's there.

Raq, if it helps, DH's dad is a consular officer whose niche is south Asia (including 2 tours in Pakistan), and DH was never blown up. Evacuated a couple of times, but never blown up.

Bev, don't sweat it -- we barely got to wish ourselves a happy anniversary on the day!

Fridays are nice.

I don't remember any traumatic injuries as a child (I was too busy almost dying of kidney infections and asthma msot of the time), but my sister once bit her tongue in half sledding. The dog had been digging in the snow, she hit a bump and had to be rushed to the ER for stitches.

I had to go to hospital for head injuries a couple of times. Once when my sister hit me with a golf club, and once when she knocked me off my tricycle. No stitches, but we're not exactly close.