some sick and twisted (but honest) thinking

I have long been aware of my overachiever tendencies. What I did not recognize until now was that I would also apply those awful achievement standards to my offspring. But here we are, six weeks and three days old, and Ghoulie has not smiled yet. I have therefore diagnosed her as autistic.
Why, you ask? Because babies smile on average at six weeks. And this appears to be one of the few milestones on which all the experts agree. So where is my awe-inspiring, heart-melting grin from my little girl?
Someone mentally healthier than I am, free of the annoying overachiever mindset, will (rightly) read this and say, "She's three days off, you nutjob." But such a person cannot comprehend my position. My child is not supposed to be average (or -- *gasp* -- slightly below?!). No, she should be advanced. She should have smiled at four or five weeks. Obviously, since it didn't happen early, it won't be happening at all. Ever. That gassy grimace is the closest we're going to get.

Here's the reason my thought process makes me a little too Mommy Dearest for my taste: It's her smile. It's up to the Little Ghoulie herself when she wants to smile and at whom she wants to direct that first beam. My role as her mother is to not care -- to let go and stop looking for it. I need to recognize her as an individual, not the subject of a growth chart.
The really sick thing is, I still feel the need to mention that her gross motor skills are already above average. Her head control is impressive, and she already takes weight onto her legs. But that shouldn't matter to me. To her pediatrician, maybe. But not to her mother.
When I graduated college magna cum laude, I was disappointed that it wasn't summa. When I won second place for my writing in a high school talent competition, I was pissed -- because it wasn't first. Somewhere deep in my psyche, second best literally equals failure. Doing something well counts only if I'm ahead of everyone else. But that's my neurosis to deal with. It shouldn't be my baby's. Let's pray to God that she is a type-B personality like her father.