Thinking, oh no, not again. Remembering what to do. Fighting back the urge to scream, to tell off, to punish the two little hands that just hit, that just bit, that just hurt. More as misplaced retaliation for how I now know I look in everyone’s eyes. All the eyes on me, I think. The whispers heard from inside their heads. The judgement made in the milliseconds after it happened. All of it feels, in that moment, like hot black mud, thrown then caked on me like sludge. I am heavy. I can’t think. I can’t feel. But I must remember what to do. To breathe. To be there for him because he doesn’t know. To love him. When I am dripping in looks and gasps. Id run if I could. I’d hide. But I don’t. I stay. I will be an example. I will be what he needs. I will be understanding, as much as I can. And so I keep my eyes on my child. On the cold sand I am now digging in in hopes it soothes him. And as I do it, it seems to soothe me a little too. And we both keep breathing. In those moments, even though it doesn’t feel easier for me, maybe I’m getting better at helping it to all feel just a little bit easier for him. And that is enough.