“Okay... okay, thanks Amara. I’ll think about it.” Before she can protest, I hang up.
Afterwards, I sit on my couch and pull up my Notes app again. That list of reasons this is a terrible idea.
I scroll past it. Start a new note.
Brave Kitchen:mindful cooking for anxious kids
I don’t knowwhere the idea comes from. Maybe from all those years of filming myself in kitchens pretending to have my life together. Maybe from remembering how counting helped me breathe when I was little and scared.
I start typing.
- Breathing whilestirring
- Count to calm while whisking
- 1-2-3 squeeze when timer goes off
- Make the kitchen a safe space
I tag itprivate/ no posting.
Just a sketch. For later. If I even take this job.
Which I won’t.
Probably.
Maybe.
I look at the rent notice again. The number at the bottom. The reality that pride doesn’t pay bills. Then read my new note over.
Brave Kitchen: mindful cooking for anxious kids
Anxious kids.
I’m already thinking of Ben.
The daughter I’ve never really met. Never really seen except from a distance at group things I mostly avoided.
The five-year-old who apparently shares my nervous system and my need for routine and my fear of things falling apart.
Maybe that qualifies me in and of itself.
Or maybe I’m delusional.
I pull up TikTok again and start doomscrolling. I’m not sure how much time passes. An hour maybe.
Finally I close the app. Open my fridge.
Half a carton of oat milk. Questionable leftover Thai food. A tub of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream that I definitely bought for “emergencies.”
This qualifies.
I grab the ice cream and a spoon, settle onto my couch with my laptop, and do what any functioning adult does when faced with a major life crisis.
I watch romantic comedies.
Three of them.
