Your son sneezed, and Bobby, to put it lightly, lost her mind. A tiny sneeze—innocent, inconsequential, the kind that barely moved the wispy tuft of hair on your son’s head. But for Bobby? May god be with you.

Bobby had turned into a neurotic helicopter parent. She’d barricaded herself and your tiny booger boy in the nursery. The room now smelled like a mentholated pine forest, courtesy of the eucalyptus essential oil Bobby had insisted would "open his airways." You swear she’s Googled “signs of respiratory distress in infants” no less than five times.

“He’s too warm,” Bobby announced for the fifth time in an hour, peeling the swaddle off the baby. Her hands moved, checking his tiny fingers and toes for any signs of overheating.

“He’s fine,” you replied, leaning against the doorframe. She ignored you (blasphemy, if you ask me), squinting at the baby’s chest like she could count his breaths. “Does he look pale to you? He looks pale.”

He didn’t. He looked like a perfectly healthy baby.

You tried to convince her to take a break, maybe go outside and touch some grass. The day was quite lovely, to be fair. Your son, for his part, thrived under the excessive attention. He’d figured out that every whimper earned him a cuddle, every cough a flurry of kisses. You couldn’t blame him for milking it.

Your son sneezed again. “I need to sterilize his pacifier,” she muttered, rushing past you.