I have too much to do. Work deadlines and unanswered emails light up like fireflies across the screen of my laptop, but it’s time for the afternoon walk. Always scheduled, because it wouldn’t happen if it wasn’t, and it needs to happen, even on days like today, when I’m resentful towards it.

I get the stroller out. I don’t have time for Ingrid’s short four-year old legs today, or her sense of wonder and awe that often distracts her. We don’t even get to the start of the forest path before she’s babbling and squirming. She twists her body with so much force I can feel the movement through the handles I grip.

“Out,” Ingrid says. “Out, Mommy.”

“Quick walk today, baby,” I say. “Mommy is in a hurry.”

“Hurry,” she repeats. “Out.”

Her sticky chubby fingers figure out how to unclip her stroller strap. She rolls her shoulders out of the thick fabric and begins to bend her legs, ready to climb out even while the stroller is in motion. 

“Okay, okay, you can get out,” I say. I leave the stroller in a neighbor’s yard for now.

Once we enter the forest path, I get out a carmelita bar I stashed in my pocket and give Ingrid half. Buttery and sweet, I’m hoping that it will hold her attention while we walk. She digs into the bar enthusiastically until she spots a freshly bloomed wildflower. She throws the carmelita bar on the ground, and cups her palms around the blossom. 

“Mommy!” she says. “Look, flower.”

“Yes,” I say, nodding my head. I should be asking her what color it is, and telling her the different parts: petals, leaves, stem, roots. “Come on, Ingrid. We’re walking, remember?”

She nods her head agreeably. “Yes, walking,” she says, and picks up the carmelita bar again. I cringe, but let it happen, telling myself a little forest dirt will be good for her gut bacteria. 

“Fast walking,” I remind her.

I grab up her pudgy wrist and hold it. Now we are moving. I am a boat, speeding through the water, and she is my cargo. She stumbles a bit to keep up with me. I hear her call out the things she’s seeing, the things I’m not letting her stop to appreciate: leaf, moss, bug, bird. I make promises, to myself and to her, that later this week we will go on a long slow walk and she will be able to stop whenever she wants. She will be able to bring treasures home, even if they are slugs and muddy rocks and rotten bits of wood, and I will find a special place for them in our home.

The forest path is a loop, and I see the end of it ahead. Soon I will be back in front of my desk, checking things off my to-do list until I stop hearing these voices in my head. When it’s time to make dinner, I will put on some music and Ingrid and I will dance in the kitchen. I am thinking all of this when I feel Ingrid’s wrist yank out of my hand. I hear the sound of skin scraping against dirt, and a child’s sound of surprise and discomfort. 

I turn around. Ingrid is on her hands and knees. I can see she is still deciding whether or not to freak out. I get down on my hands and knees beside her.

“Oh, Ingrid,” I say. “What happened, honey?”

“Ingrid fell, Mommy,” she says, her tiny bottom lip quivering.

“But you’re okay, aren’t you?” I ask.

Ingrid pushes herself up, but then plops down on her haunches in a deep squat. She looks at me, frowning. “Mommy was going too fast,” she says. 

“I’m sorry, Ingrid,” I say. “I just have so much to do today.” 

“So much to do?” Ingrid asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “So much to do. But that’s okay.”

I look at her kneecaps. Dirt has gathered on them in the shape of crescent moons. I lean back myself, imitating her posture. It would be rude to rush her now, considering I was the reason she fell down in the first place. Her fingers are grasping at her shins to keep balance, and I am in love with her senseless grace. She has a pine needle stuck in her wispy hair and it looks like it belongs there. 

I am tempted to go into detail with her about my feelings today, to blur the line between mother and daughter and make her my confidant. To admit that sometimes I still wish for an office to escape to. To explain how I often feel bitter about how all my various roles are heaped together, messy and undefined, and it’s up to me to make any sense of it. But then Ingrid screams, startling me out of my reverie. The scream is a happy one of discovery. She points at the ground in front of us.

“Look, Mommy!” she says. “What is that?”

I look where she points. An earthworm is industriously making its way across the dirt path. If we had still been hurrying, it might be goo stuck to the bottom of our shoes by now, but instead it’s a writhing joyful mess of movement. 

“Ingrid,” I say, “that is an earthworm.”

“Earthworm, earthworm” she repeats, like a holy liturgy. 

We watch it move. Its body takes turns with progress, because if it were to all move at once, it might tear itself into pieces. The front section leads the way, then pauses while the middle section catches up, and then the middle section’s movement rolls into the back section, and then somehow, the front section just knows when to keep moving again. It is a symphony of movement, a cascade of ripples and ridges. We keep watching it and my own thoughts melt away, along with my obligations to productivity.

“Earthworm,” Ingrid says again, in a whisper. “Earthworm, earthworm. So much to do.”