This here’s Bobbie nestled in a blanket that her great great grandmother Leah knit for me when I was a baby. Leah is my middle name, and Leah’s daughter was Roberta, who Bobbie is named after. This profound moment is made possible by my own Mother’s foresight, she knew to keep and preserve this blanket because I might want it again someday for this exact moment. It’s a full circle, it’s legacy, it’s family, it’s MURDER, WAIT WHAT? So much of parenting these days is internet fueled paranoia, like there’s bacteria living in your baby’s ________ and if you don’t light it on fire or bake it in a kiln nightly they will fall deathly ill and it will be all your fault. Blankets are suffocation hazards, so are stuffed animals, it’s all a hazard, the ocean, the sky, your fingernails, the floor. I put the blanket on her, but low, and check on her every five seconds. At night as she makes her pig sounds in her robot bed (see: snoo) I pray to God to keep her safe from my follies, from all of the terrible things that probably won’t happen, but did to one person, therefore it could. I pray I won’t be that one person, or she that one Kid.

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