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

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

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

“she’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 her breaths. “Does she look pale to you? she looks pale.”

she didn’t. she 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 daughter, Lila, for her part, thrived under the excessive attention. she’d figured out that every whimper earned her a cuddle, every cough a flurry of kisses. You couldn’t blame her for milking it.

Lila sneezed again. “I need to sterilize her pacifier,” she muttered, rushing past you.