Your child won't put on shoes. Not those shoes. Not any shoes. The socks are wrong. The seams touching his skin may as well be made of fire, and the clock is ticking, and the school bell doesn't care about any of this.
You feel it rise — that hot, familiar wave. Your jaw clenches. One voice in your head says…just make them wear the f*cking shoes. Followed immediately by the other voice that's been whispering for months now: You're messing this up. A good mother would know what to do.
You bribe. You threaten. You raise your voice and then hate yourself for it before the words even leave your mouth. Your child melts down. You melt down on the inside, where no one sees. Your chest is tight.
By 7:32 am, the kids are in the car. Silent. Your hands are gripping the steering wheel like it's the only thing keeping you from falling apart. And you wonder if this is it. If this is your life now.
Later that afternoon, the school emails asking for your child's most recent evaluation. You know you have it somewhere. Maybe in your email? Or was it in that folder? You spend 20 minutes searching and finally send a "let me get back to you" response because you can't find it, and you have 47 other things to do.
That night, your partner says "maybe we're being too soft" and you freeze. Because you KNOW what you're doing is right. But you can't articulate it. You can't explain the bigger picture. You just feel it in your bones.