Designer Genes

It’s the third day of school and already traffic is beginning to get back into its familiar groove.  Even after leaving a few minutes late (this eyeliner doesn’t wing itself) I was still able to make it in plenty of time.  Small victories, people, small victories.

Around an hour and a half into my shift I get a message on Skype from my son saying that he can’t breathe and his chest hurts…I calmly assess the situation and ask him a few probing questions…turns out my son is having his first ever panic attack.  Welcome to the world, son, it sucks here.

I’m very lucky to have a job that allows me to be flexible during emergency situations, so I was able to go and pick him up.  I gave him some grounding techniques and brought him in to work with me.  I set him up in the break room and went back to my daily duties (HA!  Duties…).

People keep commenting on what a good kid he is, what a good handshake he has, and how charming he is.  I love it when people compliment my son…makes me feel as though I’ve done something right.  I mean, now that I know I’ve gifted him with anxiety (hello, rampaging guilt), he’s gonna need all of the positive reinforcement he can get.  Luckily I’m here to provide just that.

But as for today, he’s feeling better.  We’ll go home and talk about ways to combat stress, even more grounding/coping techniques, and hopefully get to whatever the root of the problem is.  He and I have both had quite a year, and things like this are to be expected…but I know that pain is only temporary, and hopefully I can show him that as well.

You’ve got this, bug.  You’ve just got to learn how to breathe.


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