He stares at me from the back seat with eyes hot, red, determined, defiant and desperate to be understood. I stare at him through the rear view mirror with eyes that echo his own blue exactly and match his mood perfectly.

I am just as angry as he is.

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The only difference is that outright temper tantrums with the snot and tears and whiney mouth aren’t really navigable for grownups steering a minivan to school. I want him to just quit it. I want him to be rational. I want him to understand how mad he’s making me.

He just wants to wear the red striped shirt instead of the orange one.

Last minute battles when we’re all but out the door crush a day before it even begins. The rehab can take ages. Even when he’s finally found his way to a small island of calm and the teacher has hugged him and I’ve admired his sprouting bean, his eyes are still hot and we hug each other good-bye almost angry at how much we love each other.

The mother job is hard. Because every time I look his temper squarely in the eyes I see the reflection of my own.

 

I’m sharing this story over on (in)courage today —>click here to join me.

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