You lean forward every time I do, aiming to touch my face with yours. As I swing us back and forth, I lean back and push us with all my strength, bringing my legs up to grace your feet. You giggle in anticipation of the moment this pendulum motion brings us back together.
Today, we visited the swings for me. I know enough about my mind to know it’s about to replay a moment I want to store in long-term memory and ignore as much as possible. I want to be here, breathing the fresh air, feeling your hands on mine, and hearing your laugh when it does.
It happened in seconds–a phrase I never fully understood when said in this kind of situation. You went from enjoying your dinner with hmm noises to looking at me with desperation and fear. My head began listing the steps, and I went into action mode.
Calm voice. I’m here, it’s okay.
Urgent thought. There’s no crying, no noise. Get her out. Flip her, strike her between the shoulder blades.
I hear Jenny’s voice and see the videos flash in my head. They can recover from broken ribs. Hit hard.
Calm voice. Mama is here.
I look at your face after the first attempt, nothing. No food. Some noise, then nothing.
I run outside while I attempt to push the food out a second time with you in my arms. I hit our neighbor’s door across from us and yelled, “Someone, help me!”
I sit on the floor with you. Calm voice. I’m here. You’re going to be okay.
Hit, hit, hit, you cry. Hard. You’re okay. You’re okay.
I held you gently. You rested your head on my chest and cried a bit more. I checked your mouth and your face. We locked eyes. You were okay.
After calling Tim and checking with medical services to ensure I had done everything necessary, I took the keys and your water and put you in the stroller. I needed to leave this scary memory in the making. I felt the adrenaline rush out of my body, and I knew the uncontrollable tears would follow, but in that moment, I wanted to see joy, not fear, because we were okay.
I touched your head all the way to the park and began rehearsing this slice in my head as I pushed us back and forth on the swings. I thought of how ironic it was that I was wondering what slice of my day I wanted to choose to write again.
I sit here now; it’s the next morning, and you’re still sleeping, and I must admit I hesitated to use this moment. But I want to put this moment here for us, aside from our regular days. I want to remember the journey from fear to joy.
We’re okay.
Start with a Story 
First, so glad you are all ok. These are scary moments. I had one of these when my adult son was little. Your writing took my right back to that moment – the moment of hit between the shoulder blades, hit hard. Then we all can breath again. Again so glad your little on is safe and you found a moment of joy to replace that fear!
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I am crying now as I read this a second time. Hearing it firsthand from you last night was scary enough. Add the adrenaline rush from my own morning (so unimportant in comparison, but mirrored emotions), and WHEW. I love you so much. This was such a scary moment but your response was everything it needed to be. She is safe. You are safe. You did it. Thank goodness for all the things you’ve learned and the way you are able to react calmly and urgently in a crisis.
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So, I’m completely crying right now because I could feel the nervousness and parental fear that crept into your body. Yes, you knew what to do. Yes, she’s okay. But, yes, it was scary as hell to go through this with your sweet little one.
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You did so well… calm, remembering what to do… and to safety you added joy. That came from your heart, I don’t think it was part of the training. What a contrast. You wrote it well.
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