“Sorry.”
“Coming through.”
Finally I reach her.
“Hey sweetie.” I kneel down. “Rough day?”
Ben’s eyes are shiny with unshed tears. “Someone took my crayon.”
A crayon.
The apocalypse is upon us and it’s crayon-shaped.
“That sounds really hard,” I say, keeping my voice steady. Not dismissive. Not over-the-top sympathetic. Just present. “Want to do our hand squeeze?”
She nods. Sets Frederick on the floor. Takes my hand.
We do the one-two-three squeeze. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Now breathe. Smell the cocoa. Blow the steam.”
She inhales. Shaky but trying. Then exhales.
“Again. Smell. Blow.”
This time it’s smoother.
“Again.”
She does it a third time.
Her shoulders drop. The crisis passes. She picks up Frederick and we’re good to go.
Crisis averted.
We’re just out the classroom door when I hear it.
“Oh my God, that was adorable.”
I turn. There’s a mom across from the door. I vaguely recognize her from pickup. Blonde highlights. Expensive athleisure. Hair in a tight braid. Phone in hand.
Phone.
In.
Hand.
Pointed at us.
Recording.
My stomach drops.
No no no no.
“Did you get that?” she’s saying to another mom. “The breathing thing? That’s like, peak parenting content.”
Peak parenting content.
