“Mom-mmeee,” my son wailed as I rushed through the apartment to get ready. The walk to school was a quick one if your mother had her shit together and woke up when she was supposed to. I was not that mother. I hadn’t been that daughter, either. Running out of time and being late were at the marrow of who I was as a person and had trickled their way into my shoddy parenting.

“What is it?” I huffed as I tried in vain to fasten the back of my earring and step into my bootie at the same time. I vaguely remembered I was half naked and threw my dress over my head, ignoring the wrinkles that filtered through it from collar to hem. I hadn’t owned an iron since 2009; I washed and hoped for the best.

“I didn’t get a break!” he whined with his hands balled into fists at his sides.

“A break?” My brows pinched together. “You’re on your way to school; you don’t get a break. Let’s go.” I spoke to my son as I took a mental inventory of all things that were missing; my keys, my wallet, my sanity. We were at that crucial time of morning: the cusp between probably late and so late everyone stared as I dropped him off after the doors closed. My day would start a shit ton better without the scowl of the principal, reminding me how un-put-together I was.

“I need a break before school. You got dressed too fast!” His favorite pastime wasn’t playing video games—it was watching other kids and their parents play video games on YouTube. He had a real affection for one family, in particular, so much so that he told stories about them as though he actually spent time with them instead of merely observed them on screen. Worry sometimes traveled through my brain at that, but I doubted he could find where they lived. Maybe I should check on that . . .

“Look, do you think I got a break in the mornings? Did Nana give me a break? Nope, I had to go to school.” I took in a long breath in an effort to keep my voice in check. Yelling at him would set us back fifteen minutes we didn’t have. “Now, get your backpack on and let’s go,” I said in the sweetest voice I could muster, all the while holding back the crippling impulse to scream, “Let’s go, now!”

Not swearing in front of my son was also a difficult task. There were times when a good ol’ four letter word released all the tension in your body. I wasn’t afraid of him repeating it; the times I slipped, he scolded “bad word” over and over again. It was all I could do to drive with him in the car and not burst a blood vessel when someone cut me off. My wonderful son had supersonic hearing—when you weren’t calling him over or telling him to do something, that was. The bad attitude he was throwing at me this morning made the struggle to hold in a slew of “bad words” so palpable I felt them scratching the back of my throat.

I lifted my gaze to meet my son’s. His face crumpled as he marched up to me.

“Do you see this, Mommy? Do you see I’m crying? You just keep talking, and you don’t even care!” His two index fingers stabbed his chubby, freckle-dusted cheeks, under the overflowing ducts of his hazel eyes. Then it happened. His bottom lip protruded all the way out, as though it would stretch out and swallow his face. That was the expression he wore when we first met when I lay behind the curtain of the C-section stage, and my husband laid him on my chest. That lip jut was also my biggest weakness—my kryptonite. Even though I grew up with a mother and grandparents who had no issue watching me turn myself inside out with a tantrum, something deep inside twisted to see this little boy so upset because he thought I didn’t care.

My son got this tendency for drama from his mother. I was the kid who started crying the second she fell, before feeling any pain or seeing the first trickle of blood from a scraped knee. The lack of validation and rolling of eyes from my mother at what I thought was a terrible thing became baggage that at times still peeked its head out thirty-some odd years later.

At the deluge of tears, I forgot the time. So, we’re late. The principal will think I’m one of ‘those mothers’ for again having to ring the school bell to let my kid in. Big news! I could’ve pushed him out the door, told him to get over it, given him the same speech my seven-year-old self would have gotten, but what if he grew up to think I really didn’t care about his tears? Although I knew this wasn’t the way to build character or discipline, and my son knew full well that nine times out of ten that lip would stop me in my tracks and he could use this in the future to play me like a fiddle, I still stopped. If there was even the slightest possibility he believed I was blowing off his real feelings, that was a risk I wouldn’t take, no matter how much after eight o’clock it was.

“When Mommy says it’s time to leave,” I crooned, my voice soft and soothing, the need to comfort overpowering the need to get the H out of the house. “We need to leave. Of course, I care if you’re crying. Watching your iPad could be something you could look forward to today. But we need to go.”

Sniffle. “Okay, Mommy.” Sniffle. “We can go now.” He pulled on his backpack and trudged to the door. My chest heaved with sweet relief.

At seven, this scenario was endearing, maybe even adorable. At twelve, not so much. Beyond an age with one digit, I’d created a bratty monster. All this ran through my head as we rounded the corner to school, once again ringing the bell for the secretary to let us in.

I traipsed to my car and slid into the driver’s seat, hoping for both our sakes the lip wasn’t as cute past his tenth birthday.