By Heidi Hamm

It was just one of those mornings. I pressed snooze one too many times. The kids, who are normally up at the crack of dawn, slept in. My son’s favorite, and apparently only pair of pants that fit properly in his entire repertoire of pants, had gone missing. And my daughter’s fish had decided to pull a Nemo in the night and was stuck in the filter.

Apparently the Universe was just getting started. After rescuing said fish and finding said pants and feeling rather smug about it, I made the mistake of going downstairs thinking all would now be right in the world, or at least, in my house. What a fool.

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The dog had clearly eaten something pink and plastic, the bits of which were now lacing the diarrhea that lay in various steaming puddles around the floor. My other son, bless him, in trying to make my day easier, had decided to get his own cereal and milk. Cue the spillage. Somehow I managed to dig deep, find my inner Zen and clean up the shit while still keeping my shit together. Barely.

We were officially two minutes away from being late for school and ten minutes away from even remotely being ready to leave the house. My nerves were beginning to unravel and my eye was starting to twitch.

I threw together lunches from the dregs of what was left in my empty refrigerator, silently cursing myself for choosing the couch over the grocery store last night. I belted out instructions as well as any drill sergeant.

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“Go potty!”

“Get your socks on!”

“Pick something for show and tell!”

I rushed to gather school library books and fill out overdue permission slips. I was still clinging onto the last vestige of hope that if we got every green light, we could still make it to school on time.

Again, the Universe had other plans.

In the two seconds that I had left the dog alone in the kitchen, she had miraculously turned into the amazing stretching dog. She had stolen my daughter’s lunch kit off of the counter and had managed to consume her sandwich, along with the plastic bag it was in (don’t judge, all the Tupperware was dirty), and was just tucking into her chocolate chip muffin.

My sons had absolutely, positively not one single freaking object they could take for show and tell and my daughter was crying because the ponytail I had put her hair in was not high enough. All hope was lost. And then I lost it.

It was not a proud moment. It is not a moment that I hope will live in my children’s memories forever. I stood there and screamed. Screamed at the dog for eating the lunch. Screamed at the boys for not being able to find one lousy toy in a playroom overflowing with toys. Screamed at my daughter for being so picky.

And then I cried.

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Cried for yelling at the kids. Cried for yelling at the dog. Cried for thinking I had just caused my kids years of therapy. Cried for feeling like I was failing at this whole motherhood thing. Cried that my own mother was not still around to mother me. Cried because my eight-year-old and six-year-olds were having to comfort me, rather than the other way around.

Sometimes being an adult really sucks. Sometimes being a parent sucks even more.

By some miracle of miracles, we made it to school. On the way the kids chattered happily, seemingly unscathed by the trauma moments before, their laughter soothing my gaping wounds of guilt. As I dropped them off, I hugged them a bit tighter and a little longer than usual. I caught the eye of another harried-looking mom doing the same thing and I realized, I am not alone in this.

At least, I hope not.

I wish I could say that I always keep it together. That I don’t have “Calgon Take Me Away!” running on repeat in my head some days. But, reality. Sometimes it bites.

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We all have moments we wish we could take back. Do over. If I could have, I would have taken a page out of Frozen that day and cast a spell upon them, erasing all the bad and leaving only the good. But life is not a fairy tale. I am not a perfect parent and I am guessing neither are you.

But if you are, do you mind writing a manual? I sure could use one.

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About the Author

Heidi Hamm is a writer, wife and mom of 6-year-old twin boys with the alter egos of the Hulk and Spiderman and their 8-year-old sister, who is in training to rule a small (or large) country someday. She has been published on Sammiches and Psych Meds, Scary Mommy and Mamalode. You can also find her on Facebook.