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I think my girl had a panic attack this morning. 

 

I was making breakfast, I told her she couldn't touch the stove while I was cooking. I picked her up and set her down again at the entrance of our galley kitchen. She screamed, heartbroken and tormented, inconsolable for an hour. My eggs were ruined. She said her heart hurt.

 

I managed to clean the kitchen while she watched Mary Poppins and set her crayons in lines, bestowing names upon her colours: this one is baby C. This one is baby C's mummy. This one is baby C's papi. Then we made a batch of muffins together. 

 

I should be doing things. I should be writing here. Writing elsewhere. I should be responding to Emails, following up, hustling. That stack of folded laundry has been collecting dust for about a week. The vacuum sits in a corner of my bedroom, unused. But I'm not doing things. I can't right now.

 

Instead I lay down with my girl at nap time. She cries and flails for 40 minutes, calling for her papi and telling me, "Go way mama!. Go WAY! No hug Stella!"

 

I won't go away. I rest my head down next to hers because her hands smell like strawberries and her breath calms and everything is just the way it should be. 

 

I wonder if I'll regret not doing things, this time wasted in mid-afternoon brightness, dozing beside my sleeping child. 

 

I pat her tummy and hope her heart feels better. Mine always does, next to her.

 

Linking up here, a day late. 

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