3 part act in the day of a mom

Dear Diary,

Today was a really rough day.

Morning: The Morning Rush

It started the same way it always does—rushing in the morning, waking sleepy heads, pushing them through the rituals of brushing, washing, packing bags. It’s been more than two weeks since I stopped taking the antidepressant. I feel less patient. I don’t know if the medication was actually making me calm, or if this is just me meeting the weight of mornings like this without a buffer. Either way, it’s a conversation for my next appointment.

Sammy burrowed deeper into his sheets. Vicky was wrapped in his blanket like a cocoon, heedless of the noise. I set the rice and started breakfast. No sound yet from the VIPs.

I called louder.

7:10.
Sammy shot up, panic flooding his face. He was late. Did he do the debate homework? Big surprise face—"no?" Of course not.

"I did not know how to open it, Amma."

"Are you serious? You had a whole week. It was a YouTube video—you didn't even need an account."

I let out a deep, exasperated sigh, spiraling toward the shout zone. But I had to get Vicky out of bed too. I had to pick my ring of fire battles—and I hadn't even started.

Vicky dragged himself out of bed and rolled on the floor, complaining he needed more sleep. I see this every day. He doesn’t sleep when he should; he doesn’t wake when he should. The amount of innovation I’ve tried—TV time, cycling, Pokémon, playtime, Lego time—none of it sticks.

7:20.
Sammy was ready. Lunches packed. Breakfast set out. I started hounding both kids from room to room, trying to accelerate the impossible. Vicky was still in front of the mirror, conversing with his strange morning reflection.

All the while, they yammered about questions that, in their minds, carried the urgency of a national crisis. I was mentally tearing out my hair, controlling the rising rage just beneath my skin.

7:45.
The carpool pickup was 7:40. Sammy was still running around—socks, phone, snack, allergy medicine. Same drill every day. Even though everything was set up, he hadn’t packed it in.

When anyone else is late, Sammy complains loudly. I’ve told him: one day it could be him running late, and the others won’t hesitate to take out their mick. He didn’t stop. He kept asking to switch carpools, blaming everyone else. I didn’t want to, but I knew I’d have to bring it up with the other parents. And I knew it would turn into a blame game—an open invitation to put Sammy under the microscope next time he was late.

Now he was cutting close himself. I nudged Vicky to finish his breakfast.

Sammy pulled on his shoes, checked for his phone, and looked at me expectantly for the morning hug. He almost never leaves without it—tight hug, kiss, "I love you."

Vicky rushed to the door when he saw Sammy smile and hug me. He wears his emotions on his heart. He ran to his brother with open arms, nudging in for his own hug. Sammy allowed him a side hug, patted his head, held Vicky’s eager smooch at arm’s length. It pinched me to see the inequality—Sammy holding him back while Vicky leaned in with his whole heart, unguarded and hoping.

8:00.
Vicky had finished eating. I hurried him to get changed. He’d removed his night clothes and stopped. I packed his bag, scrolling on my phone, confident he’d be out in a minute.

8:10.
Where was Vicky? I ran through the hall, my footsteps thumping—I knew it would make him scared and anxious. Still, I overrode the help books and therapy.

There he was. Still in his room. Rolling on his bed. Something snapped. I began to scold him, not listening to the pleas in his eyes or on his tongue. I half-hissed, half-yelled as I gripped his arm getting him dressed.

8:15.
I scolded him the whole time I put on his shoes. He asked for a different jacket. "This one has melted wax on it. I left it when it went to the wash," he said in a small voice.

I was past listening. "That will teach you to get ready early enough to make dress choices. We are past time for yet another jacket."

"Please, Amma. I can't put my finger in," he showed me. I shoved him through the door. I was angry, but somewhere the cruel roughness pinched me. I pushed it out of my mind.

8:20.
I glared at him to get into the car. It is a severe imbalance of power. He was smaller. I have no right to make him feel unsafe. I am his mother. I should be his safe space. Where does making him feel less able to express himself end and enforcing my responsibility start?

I got a flash of my own childhood: rushing out of bed, panicky loud voices making sure we had everything.

"Run, run, no walking, run!" I shouted as I dropped him off. "No wait—give me a kidd darling boy." He turned with a bright smile, worries gone. He gave a tight, pure hug.

I let out a sigh of relief at getting the kids to school. Then the guilt hit.

Afternoon: The Forgotten Books

By the time I dropped Vicky and returned home, I felt overcome with sleepiness. I had a salad and went to bed. I had no idea I would sleep until 2 PM, until it was time to pick him up.

2:30 PM.
I was groggy, but the bright sun erased any trace of sleep. As we walked back slowly, I asked about his day. It was cool, a slight chance of drizzle later, so I tried a new incentive: cycling if he was done with everything by 4 PM.

When we reached home, I made him finish lunch, have another snack, and sit down for homework.

His bag had nothing but the water bottle and snack box.

"Where are the books and your binder?"

His mouth dropped. "I forgot."

Another pattern: forgetting things he is supposed to bring home. Forgetting things he needs at school. My temple throbbed. Shouting resumed.

I made him do several pages of work his teacher had sent back—work supposed to be completed in school but neglected despite reminders. This teacher isn't the nurturing patient type, despite what she says. I felt the burden of being the worse cop came to me.

I thrust him toward the table. After a "find a pencil, find the eraser, get a drink of water, use the bathroom and final warning," he sat down to start.

3 PM.
By now, Sammy should have returned home. Probably hanging with friends, lost track of time, I sighed. Then I remembered his afterschool class. I'd need to pick him up.

3:15 PM.
I called a few times to make sure he was working on the video and eating his snack. He'd recently recorded the most annoying voicemail greeting. Finally he answered: he couldn't find a place to access the video, but now he remembered the snack. Yay, Mom.

I smiled, thinking how hard this pre-teenager wants to be independent, still forgetting things like eating. His class started in 15 minutes—I had reminded him in time.

3:30 PM.
My attention returned to Vicky. Once again, the pencil, eraser, water, snack replay started. I tried to put a lid on my bubbling impatience before it turned to full-fledged rage. Finally he began his work. (Hurray!)

Two minutes later, he started begging for an extra snack. This boy... Sammy needs no food; I feel bad rejecting Vicky even when it's an excuse to procrastinate.

4 PM.
The time for our break had come and gone. We were no closer to getting through the sheaves of paper long overdue.

I started to question my sanity, my shouting, all the child-rearing self-help material that says the same thing: learning environment deteriorates with stress and volatility. Sure, but what about the sanity of the parents? Or the pressure that expects children to survive this learning atmosphere under the guise of thriving? I want to let them be kids. I really do. The work would take less time than he's stretching it out. His kiddie brain isn't able to just cram it and finish and relieve us both of this struggle. 

Evening: The Lost Phone

5 PM.
I called Sammy to tell him I was at the pickup place. He didn't answer—probably on silent again. Then the obnoxious voicemail. When he came to the car, he looked worried. He said he left something and had to go back for it.

He came back, face fallen. It was the phone. He didn't know where he left it.

"You lost the phone? How? I just talked to you at 3:15, and your class was at 3:30. Maybe it's in the classroom. How could you misplace it in 15 minutes?"

"No, I checked."

I could see panic rising in his face. It was his most precious possession, even if he jokingly called it a flipstone—an old-style non-smart phone. He had begged for it for months. To lose it would cut him.

I launched into a lecture about care of personal belongings. "It might rain tonight. I hope you didn't leave it outside."

I could see his little brain worrying—his lifeline to his friends. Without it, he felt like an outcast. He was more worried than he wanted me to see. He knew showing me real fear would probably make me angrier.

I should have stopped. But again, something snapped. Not about the cost—the intent to push the lesson in. I couldn't stop once the tirade started. It wasn't an expensive phone, and I knew he wasn't really ready for the responsibility.

I scolded him about debate homework, grades, carelessness. He was trapped in the car the whole ride. His tearful face begging me to stop shouting and stop scolding, as he stared straight ahead crying. I was kitchen-sinking, connecting this one incident to everything else. I would not have wanted to be him in that car. I was at my wit's end. I knew how wrong I was, how unfair, how helpless and unsafe I made him feel.

I switched gear to console him: it would probably be found in lost and found. 

Then another sharp stab: "Or if it's not, you can rely on your friends' phones. Then again, since you call it a flipstone, you aren't worried about electronics malfunctioning, so you can use it however it is left to function."

His face dropped in horror, and tears filled his eyes at my cold words. No matter how much he and his friends mocked their phones as dumbphones, they were attached to their beloved devices and the loss would be very felt. It was an exhilerating status symbol and connection, and he acutely relished it.

5:15 PM.

When we got home, he started to put away his work. His planner was empty. His grades were bad, and at least half were bad because of penalty points docked for late submissions. For work that he completed in time, but just did not turn in.

His handwriting was bad. I was spinning out of control with the number of issues my eyes were seeing.

He was crying at my scolding. Vicky was crying at my scolding. My head was throbbing with a severe headache from all the shouting.

Sammy kept telling me I should go back to the library lady therapy. He meant the workshop we attended—the one about creating positive spaces for kids. The irony wasn't lost on me. I had sat in that room, nodding along, taking notes. And here I was, the opposite of everything they taught.

I thought about calling the medication manager. About calling someone. Anyone. But the thought of explaining this day—admitting out loud what I had done—felt impossible. So I said nothing. I just sat there, head throbbing, while both my children cried.

6:30 PM. 

I am supposed to be their safe space. Tonight, I was the storm, and it is not rare any more.

When I finally stopped to get started with dinner, the house was silent. Vicky hid under the table, doing some coloring. Sammy sat at the table, staring into his papers, tears dropping onto the paper.

I wanted to say something. I didn't know what. So I said nothing.

This is what I keep passing down. The panic. The loud voices. The guilt that comes after. I thought about the antidepressant. Whether it was making me calm or just numbing me. Maybe the answer was neither. Maybe the answer was that I need more than a pill. Tomorrow morning, it starts again. I don't know if I'll be better. I don't know if I know how.

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