The Time I Didn't Lose My Shit

I follow a few paces behind Small Sir in his Spiderman Crocs, swinging an orange water bottle in his right hand. I’m carrying a plate of bacon I found behind the front door, my purse, my own water bottle, and too little patience. We still haven’t made it to the car.

We’ve been on our way to the car for a while.

As Small Sir continues out of the garage to say hello to the birds, I take a deep breath and remind myself that an iced coffee is only two stops away.

This moment right here is the point when I usually lose my shit.

The moment after I stopped my dressing routine ten times to look for my son—who thinks we’re playing hide-and-seek—who’s huddled behind the front door (hence the bacon), after building a car ramp from magnetic tiles like the one that an influencer on Instagram made look easy but I can’t make work at all—that I certainly wouldn’t have attempted this morning except my son found the picture on my phone after I took a picture of him eating bacon behind the front door—after I kept reminding Small Sir he needed to get dressed and we needed to leave, after he (finally) looked like he was ready to put his clothes on, but then found a sticker book from one of the three Easter baskets he received this year—a sticker book that he hadn’t cared about or noticed until exactly THAT moment—after he finally consented to let me help him dress though he’s a fully capable almost four-year-old, after I’ve gathered our traveling supplies (purse, waters, snacks, shopping list, tablet, bacon) and after Small Sir has said a lengthy goodbye to Big Sir and I think we’re finally on our way, he does what he does every morning and walks straight past the car and into the driveway to soak in the day like the Zen master he is (and I am not), and I’m waiting by the back door of the car with my arms full, trying not to froth.

But…I don’t blow up this time.

A few hours earlier, when I should’ve been dressing but was trying not to cry in frustration over the glitches in my Facebook author page, my son stopped what he was doing to climb in my lap and give me a much-needed hug and kiss, with that purest of pure looks on his sweet face as he told me that it was going to be OK Mommy.

When I clenched my jaw on the living room floor as I implored my son to get dressed, he plopped down in front of me in his lizard jammies and calmly told me to count to ten.

When I went to the bathroom, I saw that the toilet paper was wonky, and I realized Small Sir had unrolled it at some point…and then rolled it back up. On his own. To add to that miracle, the other day I caught him wiping his own pee off the wall without having to be asked first.

Today, unlike more days than I’d like to admit, I decide the boy is more important than errands, my relationship with my son more valuable than leaving the house on my own time. Instead of demanding through gritted teeth that he get his little rear end in the car, I remembered he is a loving, compassionate, curious individual with his own whys and wants and plans for the day. Plans that include saying good morning to the birds when he hears them sing.

Plans that are every bit as important as mine.