Heart, Dropped.

February 18, 2007

When WonderBaby was not quite four months old, she fell off of her change table. Well, fell isn’t quite the right word. I can’t say that she jumped – she still being in her infancy at the time – but there certainly seemed to be an element of will in the flight that she took. I had just bent down to retrieve the diaper, which – along with the baby wipes and the butt cream and the rectal thermometer and all manner of paraphernalia necessary for the tending of baby nether regions – had been flung to the floor in the frenzy of bouncing and struggling that was and is characteristic of WonderBaby’s toilet rituals, when it happened. And in the split-second that it took for her to fling herself off of her change pad and into mid-air, it seemed that I spent an eternity lamenting my terrible, terrible parenting skills: if only I had belted her down, if only I hadn’t bent over, if only I had kept a hand on her, if only I had three extra hands, if only, if only…

In the next fraction of a second, I threw out my arms and lunged forward and caught her, like a football, inches from the hardwood floor.

My heart still pounds when I think of it.

WonderBaby has, in the year and some weeks since that first dramatic fall, pitched or hurled or tumbled herself off of and onto a variety of surfaces. She’s an explorer, and an adventurer, and there ain’t no mountain (or chair or table or windowsill or bookshelf) high enough to deter her from her quest to conquer her known universe. There’ve been more than a few head bonks along the way. And with every thud, thump, bonk and bang, I have become more and more blasé. Pick her up, dust her off, kiss her head, sit back and watch as she climbs right back onto the rocking horse.

Until this weekend. This weekend thrust me right back into the abyss of heart-pounding panic and soul-searing self-recrimination. This weekend, we faced blood, and the emergency ward.

The blood wasn’t actually the worst of it, although it seemed pretty bad at the time. WonderBaby was performing her usual dining room table acrobatics on Saturday morning – against the futile pleading and grasping of her mother – when she stumbled and banged her mouth; there was a shout, and there were tears, but it all seemed fine until I noticed that her chin and neck and chest were covered in blood. Drenched in blood. Oh holy mother of shit, I thought, she’s knocked out her baby teeth or bitten off her tongue and I AM GOING TO HELL. But I didn’t freak out, not totally. I could tell that she was fine – in the broader, she-has-not-broken-her-head scheme of fineness – that it was just a matter of figuring out what had been cut or bitten and pressing warm wet cloths against her mouth and administering kisses and mopping up the blood. My heart did not pound or spin, at least not at a speed that exceeded posted limits.

When, however, today, she flung herself out of a shopping cart and landed, with a dull thud, on concrete, on concrete, my heart spun – it spins, it’s still spinning – with all the force of a cyclone and very nearly burst the confines of my chest. It was only a moment, a split second – I was right there, I was keeping near, because she kept trying to climb out, she’s so good at climbing out, and in the split second that it took for me to turn away to quibble with the husband or he with I about some banality or another it happened, something happened and all we heard was the thud. And then, silence, for what seemed an eternity.

And then we were both there, on the ground, pulling at her, clawing at her, encouraging her screams, willing her to scream more, louder, because the screams were better than that terrible moment of silence, that moment that was just a moment ago that felt like forever when she just lay there, when she lay there, silent, on the hard hard concrete for only a second but also for an eternity. And then, grabbing her, both of us at once, and squeezing her between us and moving, quickly, together, one body, away from the cart, abandoning the cart and ignoring the eyes, the looks, the stares – I know I know I know I know I am terrible I let her jump I wasn’t there it’s all my fault bad mother bad mother bad mother - and hastening for the car.

She was calm by the time we arrived at the ER. By the time that we were ushered into Pediatric Emergency, she was fussy, and belligerent, and determined to make full use of the available wheelchairs and stretchers and bedpans for her own amusement. We sat, exhausted and diminished, while she dismantled the waiting room. She seemed fine, but we, we were not, we having clearly revealed ourselves as bad parents, the worst parents, negligent parents, our daughter having been hurt – for the second time in one weekend – while in our care. As my husband put it later, it felt as though we were made to wait in that waiting room, under the harsh glare of the lights and our consciences, for the sole purpose of sitting and thinking about what we had done.

What if you get one chance, but only one chance, to get it wrong, to make THAT mistake, he asked, and this was that chance, that mistake?

And later, after the doctor had said that it seemed that she hadn’t hit her head, at least not hard, and that she seemed fine, that we just needed to watch her, keep an eye on her (those eyes that so fatefully strayed): did we dodge a terrible, terrible bullet? Did we get lucky? Did we get away with something? THIS TIME?

We’ve been beating ourselves up ever since.

We know – I know – that we can’t protect her from every bump and tumble. That even the best parents look away at the wrong moment, sometimes. Loosen their grip, trust that the safety belts will hold, trust that the safety belts are just in case and that it’s no big deal if they’re missing or broken and that even though you never leave child unattended it’s okay if you look away for just a second, just a second.

But, oh, holy Mary mother of God, that second, that second is all that it takes and once that second passes you can’t snatch it back. And then it doesn’t matter, whether you were bad, or good, or a little bit of both.

The blood, I could handle; I know that motherhood, parenthood, is a river of blood and spit and shit and tears. I know this; I expect this, however hard it gets. But that silence, today, when I looked away, when she fell, when the world stopped – the silence overwhelmed. I know that it was nothing (although we are still watching, we will not sleep, listening for her to stir, listening for her breathing, reassuring ourselves that she is fine); I know that we will go through this again; I know that – given WonderBaby’s daredevil nature – we will probably go through something like this many times over. I know that my heart will pound to the point of bursting again and again and again. And I know ( I pray) that it will all be fine, more than fine.

But how do we do it? How do we calm our hearts? Do our hearts ever calm? Or do the hearts of parents always beat harder, faster, always threaten to burst?

It’s no wonder we drink.

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    Catherine February 19, 2007 at 12:14 am

    Thank you for sharing your stories – my heart pounds reading them, and remembering how very likely my own wiggly 6 month old is to follow in WB’s daredevil footsteps…

    I’m glad she’s ok…

    crazymumma February 19, 2007 at 12:24 am

    How freakin scary is that silence. I guess the wind was knocked out of her. I far prefer screams and blood over a limpness,stillness a quietness.

    A terrifying experience for both of you. They become so active at that age and they know NO fear.

    SUEB0B February 19, 2007 at 1:35 am

    Anne Lamott said that being a parent means never passing another peaceful night – that there is SO MUCH to worry about…

    But I quote Pooh, because I think children are Tiggerish in many ways:
    The wonderful thing about tiggers,
    Is tiggers are wonderful things
    Their tops are made out of rubber
    Their bottoms are made out of springs.

    Good luck in getting your heart to stop pounding. You have the Suebobian Seal of Parental Goodness, FWIW.

    Lara February 19, 2007 at 1:51 am

    i had chills reading this whole post. i’m so sorry you had to go through that, but you’re right in accepting that this will happen many times.

    not sure if this will make you feel better or worse, but just imagine for a moment the heart-pounding my mom had to endure when she got a message from a random doctor telling her that her daughter had been admitted to the psych ward for an attempted overdose. i still feel bad for putting her through that hell.

    i think maybe it’s just the price we have to pay for a love so strong, so dear, so primitive.

    but it’s worth it… right?

    Mona February 19, 2007 at 1:52 am

    How terrifying! That WonderBaby knows how to work your heart muscles for sure. I’m glad she’s fine now and I hope there’s a glass of wine within your reach. I know I’d need one.

    Jenn February 19, 2007 at 2:14 am

    I’m so glad she’s okay – and you will be too, promise. Maybe a few more grey hairs, but you’ll be okay.

    I had to read this out loud to my husband, after we (read: I) had the Icy Sidewalk Incident about a month ago. Both our hearts took a while to slow down that day…

    Izzy February 19, 2007 at 2:15 am

    Would it make you feel any better to know that with my daughter (firstborn), I never even used those belts? She would stand up in the cart seat and rest her rear end on the back of seat and total strangers would lecture me about how badly she would be hurt if she fell. My son is crazy and a daredevil that doesn’t know fear and that scares the holy hell out of me. Suffice it to say, I use the nasty, crusty belt now and he STILL manages to wiggle out and stand up.
    Some children cannot be contained despite our best efforts.


    m February 19, 2007 at 2:32 am

    I’m glad WB is okay and you’re surviving the scares. Terrible, heart clutching silences are the worst.

    Just today my son managed to wiggle his way out of the lap belt in his high chair and stood. I was right there, but man oh man, just seeing what he can do while I’m watching was frightening enough. Imagine what he’ll do when I’m not looking?

    Enjoy your wine! (Or beer. Or tequila. What does goes best with a trip to the ER?)

    Heather February 19, 2007 at 3:45 am

    Not your fault. Not your fault. I know it feels that way, but it’s not your fault. That’s what we call them accidents.

    I’m glad she’s okay!!

    Lady M February 19, 2007 at 4:08 am

    My heart is pounding. I’m so glad that WB is ok. Q is not nearly as adventurous as she is, and still there are moments where I think “I just turned around, and how did you get up there?” Get as much rest as you can. I’m sure she’ll be ready to be a handful tomorrow too. You are doing a great job, just keeping up with her.

    Sandra February 19, 2007 at 7:02 am

    My heart dropped reading this. The deafening silence must have been terrifying.

    You are a good mom. You are doing your job. She loves you fiercely and you love her fiercly in return.

    Sending giant hugs your way.

    Beck February 19, 2007 at 7:28 am

    When my boy was barely two, we were walking hand-in-hand down our steep, sharp staircase when he leaned forward to yell at his sister and suddenly his hand slipped from mine and he fell down the entire staircase headfirst. He was knocked unconcious and landed with a limp thud at the bottom of the stairs, unmoving.
    And was that the worst moment of my life? Oh yes. But he’s okay now. So I can truly, truly relate to exactly how you’re feeling. Bad things DO happen and they can sometimes be prevented – but sometimes, they JUST happen. Toddlers hurt themselves while they’re figuring out their limits – they always do.

    Janet a.k.a. "Wonder Mom" February 19, 2007 at 8:01 am

    God I hate that feeling. Deep down in your gut. That feeling of puke, vomit, fear and bile rising up into the air…because of the silence….

    So glad you are ALL okay.

    Pattie February 19, 2007 at 8:14 am

    It has happened to the best of us, Catherine. My son has had several trips to the ER and all his accidents happened while I was an arms length away. Knowing they will get hurt is part of being a Mom, but when it happens, all that “I know this is part of motherhood” talk goes right out the perverbial window!
    Glad she is Ok….(You, too) *HUG*

    K February 19, 2007 at 8:54 am

    She does make you earn your keep, eh?

    I’m so glad she is okay. I worry more about you. When Q broke all those bones last year — she was fine… it was me that was a bit scarred.

    Okay. A LOT.

    penelopeto February 19, 2007 at 9:24 am

    my heart is pounding for you.
    thank goodness she is ok – it will probably take you longer to ‘heal,’ but of course, we’d trade a million years of feeling horrible for the well-being of our children.

    it happens to us all.
    sooner or later, it happens to us all.

    bubandpie February 19, 2007 at 9:33 am

    My greatest fear is of accidents – because there is nothing more intolerable than that urge to grab those seconds back, to change any of the tiny variables that would have led to a different ending. The only way we make it from day to day is that we grow a thick skin over the part of us that is aware of how many things can go wrong, and how quickly. You’ve had that skin ripped off this weekend, and it will take some time for it to grow back.

    Mouse February 19, 2007 at 9:44 am

    Very scary, glad she’s OK.

    I remember using the belt in a cart one time and Scooter managed to flip himself over the back of the seat. The belt held, but it twisted him around.

    And he still believes that if we’re holding him and he throws himself around, we won’t drop him. Which is less of a likelihood as he gains mass.

    mamatulip February 19, 2007 at 9:45 am

    This post took me spiraling right back to when Julia punctured her head on an antique auto harp when she was a baby, and how the blood just gushed from her head and seeped into her white-as-snow shirt…and when Oliver fell and smashed his mouth on the legs of our computer chair and chipped his front tooth something awful…and in both of those instances there was that awful moment of silence, where it’s plain to see that the pain and confusion is flooding your child and you can’t stop it.

    So glad that WB is okay, and that you are too, though somewhat rattled.

    Angela February 19, 2007 at 9:52 am

    So sorry all of you had to go through that. As a parent, I know that heart stopping and deafening silence, things happen no matter what we do. The guilt, self recrimination, replaying the scenario, the “what ifs”, can drive you crazy, just hold WonderBaby close and breathe.

    Fairly Odd Mother February 19, 2007 at 9:57 am

    Oh that silence. I can’t even tell you how much I fear that silence. All THREE of mine have fallen from the top of our stairs to the bottom, head over heels, but thank goodness there was always loud cries at the bottom of the stair case. I’m so sorry you had to age so much this weekend.

    Nancy February 19, 2007 at 10:18 am

    Scary, scary stuff. There is nothing more frightening than that silence. When Amanda from Mandajuice was featured on Mommy Bloggers this past week, I cried AGAIN (like I had the first time) rereading the story of when she had trouble waking her daughter from a deep sleep. It’s the nightmare we can’t escape as long as we are parents.

    I am glad WonderBaby is OK, though. And that you mostly are. ((hugs))

    gingajoy February 19, 2007 at 10:28 am

    you poor thing! i also had the changing matt experience when Jack was about 5 months. And then the ER when he was 18 months. A fall down teh stairs, an that silence just brings your heart to your mouth. And then yesterday, with Sam, is was coughing and coughing and I suddenly panicked that he was struggling to breathe and I just went cold. (he was fine).

    yes. i’ve been torturing myself with images of them hurt..or much worse lately.

    i think it’s because i’m happy. i am waiting for the other shoe to drop.

    laura February 19, 2007 at 10:58 am

    Gosh, how scary! I am glad that she’s doing okay now! I wish that toddlers came equipped with wings, sometimes …

    NotSoSage February 19, 2007 at 11:05 am

    I’m so glad that Wonderbaby is okay. Oh, god, this is so evocative of exactly the way you feel when anything like this happens. It’s so incredibly scary…

    I am taking Mme L to the dentist tomorrow because she fell hard enough a few weeks ago to kill one of her teeth. I mean to post about it tomorrow once we know what’s happening, but she might have to have the tooth pulled.

    Now that I know she’s not hurt, I’m worried about what she will endure (I know, it could be worse) going without a front tooth for the next four or five years and I am reliving the moment over and over and over again.

    Motherguilt. That monkey’s never gonna get off my back.

    slouching mom February 19, 2007 at 11:15 am

    When Jack was just under one, we traveled to La Jolla, CA, courtesy of a funding agency that had awarded my husband a stipend, and we stayed in a really lovely, fancy hotel, too fancy for the likes of us. Ben was happily splashing in the hotel pool , and Jack was poolside, right next to me and my husband, and then he was not. And then I found Jack, and he was under the water on his back, looking up at me with contentment and trust. I jumped in the pool with my clothes on, while California ladies sunning themselves looked distastefully on at the scene. No one offered to help. Jack was fine, of course, but sometimes when I close my eyes at night I see him through the water staring so calmly at me, and I want to scream. It will never go away, this memory. I doubt your moment will leave you, either. I am sorry.

    Michele February 19, 2007 at 11:38 am

    Oh my. I am happy WB is fine and I am feeling your fears and pangs of guilt.
    As another commenter said, the times when my children have
    hurt themselves enough to draw blood, I was always at arms length. I still get cold sweats thinking about what COULD have happened, and then I have to keep saying “but it DIDNT.” and for that we are very grateful.

    Heather February 19, 2007 at 11:39 am

    Oh I feel for you! My husband and I were just talking about this kind of thing as our tot gets more adventurous. We are dreading the first trip to the ER.

    So glad your little one is ok.

    p.s the exact thing happened to friends of mine

    Kimberly February 19, 2007 at 11:40 am

    I call that the “breathe, baby” moment. Those terrifying seconds of silence where the mouth is open, but no sound is coming out. Where you fear no sound will ever come out again.

    It’s terrible. It’s awful. And, sadly, it’s life as a parent. The truth of it is, you are going to be tested many, many times. And you are going to fail, many, many times. Sometimes in small ways, sometimes spectacularly. But, you’re also going to succeed. You’re going to conquer your fears and allow WonderBaby to continue to explore and define her known universe, because that’s the true test, and the only one you really need to pass: The smother test.

    soleclaw February 19, 2007 at 11:57 am

    I’m so sorry you had to go through all that torment. We’ve had our fair share of bumps and scrapes, and even a changing table incident. All are equally horrifying and scary, but I cannot imagine the terror you must’ve felt.

    My heart is with you, and I’m so glad that WonderBaby is okay.

    AmandaD February 19, 2007 at 12:14 pm

    The depths of the pain and joy that go hand in hand with being a parent never cease to amaze me. Sometimes I find it hard to imagine that after the toll of loving and worrying I’ll have anything left 20 years from now. That said, the exhaustion and euphoria I experience from the privilege of being a mom are two things I wouldn’t trade for all the king’s gold. Thank you for so beautifully sharing your story.

    FishyGirl February 19, 2007 at 12:27 pm

    God, that silence. When Nemo fell out of my arms out of our bed when I fell asleep while nursing the SECOND night we were home from the hospital, he landed on his head and just let out a tiny squawk, and then he was silent. DH and I were so so so terrified that he wouldn’t scream again. Obviously, he’s fine now and none the worse for wear, but just reading your post made my heart pound in my throat once again, and made the feelings of guilt flare up again. I don’t know if it ever goes away – it just becomes somewhat easier to bear, I think.

    So so glad WB is just fine and dandy.

    T. February 19, 2007 at 1:08 pm

    My lovely pediatrician always tells me if they are screaming they are breathing. It’s that silence that is soooo scary!

    Kudos for Wonderbaby for bouncing back (sorry, couldn’t resist) and for you and dad for hanging in there.

    It doesn’t get easier as they grow. The falls just get longer. (As I type this I eye the forty foot tree my kids like to shimmy up.)

    Hang in there, chicky. Love that pic!

    MotherBumper February 19, 2007 at 1:52 pm

    Oh the silence, the absolutely nauseating and dreaded silence IS the worst. And the feeling of why did I do it that way and not this way, all the second guessing that comes with parenting. It’s all so horrible. Is it the price we must pay in order to enjoy the times that make our heart almost burst with pride and joy? I guess it must be because that’s the only way I can handle it.

    Elizabeth February 19, 2007 at 2:16 pm

    I love how you told this story, the words you chose, it kept me hanging on til the end, holding my breath. As you were, waiting for that silence to be broken.

    When Kaitlyn was just a few months old, I set her down in the carseat on the kitchen table to fix her a bottle, only I didn’t fasten the carseat harness, because it was only going to be a second. While my back was turned, she leaned forward in the seat and flipped right out of it and landed on her stomach on the kitchen floor. I heard the SMACK of her body hitting the floor and my heart stopped. How could I have been so irresponsible? What the hell was I thinking? Etc. Etc.

    Hugs to you, and WonderBaby. You are NOT a bad mother, despite what your blog title says ;p

    MsPrufrock February 19, 2007 at 2:25 pm

    I am a natural worrier, so of course this is one aspect of parenthood which scares me to death. Even at just 7 months, I have already managed to smack P.’s head on the car door, and drop a ceramic mug on her head from the countertop above. I dread to think what the next 18 years will bring.

    I’m pleased to hear WB made a quick recovery and that you did too from the shock.

    Oh, The Joys February 19, 2007 at 2:27 pm

    Oh, can I relate. Rooster has had stitches in her forhead, a staple (STAPLE!!!) in her head and now has gashed her lip open with her teeth. She has (willingly jumped) off the changing table and she just plain WIPES OUT every single day. What am I doing wrong?!

    The Mayor on the other had, seeing an oportune moment last night when Rooster spilled an adult sized drink on the floor – ice skittering everywhere – left the restaurant. I mean, the kid (who is only 2 and a half) snuck away and went OUTSIDE. Out. the. door.

    Mary Mother of GOD!!!

    Sara February 19, 2007 at 2:37 pm

    Whew. Those breathless moments are the WORST part. Whether they come from falls and scrapes or just plain outgrowing our expectations, there will be more and more.

    I’m so glad that Wonderbaby is okay. I have no good advice, just the reassurance that I’ve been there 4 x over.

    ewe are here February 19, 2007 at 3:05 pm

    Oh god. That second you speak of… I know it well. Too well. Because MF is also a climber, an explorer, and has had more than his share of tumbles, bumps and thumps. I think my heart stopped when he tumbled down the bottom half dozen stairs once and I dove to catch him; and the next time when I wasn’t quite fast enough and only could watch in horror as he landed at the bottom.

    My conclusion:
    active toddler = scared parents
    there’s just no way around it.

    I’m really glad WonderBaby is ok. And have that drink. For all of us.

    Her Bad Mother February 19, 2007 at 3:12 pm

    Had that drink. Brandy. Big freaking tumbler full.

    nomotherearth February 19, 2007 at 3:36 pm

    My heart was in my mouth as I read this. Had that moment sometime around 4 months. You know how they say to never leave them unattended when they are starting to learn how to roll over? Yeah, I did that. The Boy fell off the bed. We had the silence and then the scream. Glad to hear that WB is okay, and I hope you guys are okay soon.

    Whoever said this was hard wasn’t being descriptive enough.

    Chag February 19, 2007 at 3:38 pm

    Hope all you guys are feeling much better today!

    Mayberry February 19, 2007 at 3:43 pm

    My God. I am so sorry, and so glad that she’s OK.

    Also, how cool is Suebob!?

    Ms. Porter February 19, 2007 at 3:47 pm

    Judging by all the comments to this post, I guess most of us have felt the same way before. It is such a horrible feeling, but at least your ending is good one.

    Her Bad Mother February 19, 2007 at 3:52 pm

    Mayberry, Suebob is indeed fantastically cool and I will be singing that Tigger song to the husband tonight, repeatedly, after I’ve had another few brandy.

    WonderBaby, on the other hand, does not need to hear it, because it might give her ideas. Springs and rubber, yikes.

    Occidental Girl February 19, 2007 at 4:12 pm

    Yikes, I know. When my daughter climbed and fell out of her crib at 18 months old, and I found her on the floor sleeping but thought she was…oh, an awful moment.

    The nurse on call said her son fell out of a shopping cart and hit his head on the concrete, and was fine. You never lose that sense of culpability. She is a nurse, and felt like she should’ve known better.

    The guilt of motherhood is tremendous!

    But it’s allright. Thankfully. Let’s be a bit easier on ourselves, keep vigilant, but be gentle.

    Karen February 19, 2007 at 4:36 pm

    My second child has adjusted my heart rate to what I call “the new normal.” I’m neither constantly panicking nor assuming things will be fine. My oldest was/is more naturally cautious and introspective, though being a mom for the first time kept my worry level high enough. My second child has taught me to have emergency preparedness and trust go hand in hand. I have to trust that he will be okay as he climbs the world and accept he’ll get hurt; it’s my new normal. He’s almost three – I’m almost used to it. I’ve learned to enjoy this part of him, so part of my rapid heartbeat is pride in his accomplishments as he seeks to master these skills; his adorable self is so proud when he jumps out of the bathtub, I don’t love it, but it’s hard not to treasure the emotion he is having; of course it took me a long time to recognize that he had his own feelings about, I was so overwhelmed by my own feelings (namely, in God’s name why we are jumping out of the tub?)

    Happy for you today, that your girl is well and happy- hoping you and her bad father reach a place of peace and sleep tonight.

    Mrs. M February 19, 2007 at 4:51 pm

    I was an only child until I was 12 and then the built in babysitter for my brother. My parents worked evenings and nights in the hospital and as I was bathing him and getting him ready for bed one evening he took an unfortunate dive from the counter to the floor. Ouch! I cried, he cried! I called 911 because I thought sure he would die and I wouldn’t have a baby brother. He didn’t even get a knot, but I was badly bruised.

    Emily February 19, 2007 at 5:14 pm

    When my Robbie got old enough to fling himself off of the bed (and, thankfully, come up screaming), my very practical mother sent me a gift: two red washcloths. One for upstairs and one for downstairs, she explained, so that when he inevitably needed stitches I had something to soak up the blood with. The idea is that nobody can see the blood on a red cloth (and therefore, there would be no freaking out!), and I wouldn’t ruin my nice towels.

    This practical approach meant a lot to me at the time, since I was also going through that OMG HOW DID I LET THIS HAPPEN crisis, too. It was somewhat reassuring to me for her to send something like this that told me that this stuff was bound ho happen. The best way to deal with it is to know it was going to happen, stay calm, and take care of the situation without ruining the guest towels. :)

    eastcoastelle February 19, 2007 at 5:15 pm

    Oh HBM… my heart goes out to you. Try not to beat yourself up. I’m starting to think that all children up to the age of 10 contain a certain percentage of rubber.

    I hope that this is a slightly less heart-racing week for you, after the weekend you’ve had.

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