The Consequence of Sock Puppets

            I am running around everywhere. Into one room, holding a pair of shoes, when I sit to put them on I realize I have no socks. I run into the other room to get a pair of socks and then back to the spot where I have dropped my shoes. I stick my head into my son’s room while I’m running past each time and yell, “We’re late for school, get dressed!”

            I have put my shoes and socks on, but realize I haven’t yet brushed my teeth. I rush back into the bathroom and pass a naked little boy playing with dinosaurs. “Put some clothes on, or you’re going to school naked!” Teeth brushed and now I have to run to the kitchen to pack lunches. Throw the prepared foods into two separate lunch boxes when suddenly I hear little footsteps behind me. There stands my son, dressed from the waist up, with his hands covered by socks, feet, legs, and bum still bare, wearing an enormous grin.

            “Mommy, look! I have sock puppets!”

            I hear the school bell going off somewhere in my mind. It jangles and jars my already frazzled nerves. We are late and once again it is my fault; trying to do too many things in not enough time. I run a hand through my uncombed hair and picture my make-up free face, screaming for attention; we were supposed to leave five minutes ago. I grit my teeth so hard I hear them gnash together and force the words out in a growl.

            “Go get your damn pants on right now and get those f-ing things off your hands and put them on your feet where they belong! You have two minutes before I leave without you!”

            His little face crumples and I see his shoulders sag in defeat. He looks at me, at my betrayal, and the tears begin to slip silently out of his eyes. He walks out of the room and away from my anxiety. It only takes about ten seconds for me to feel absolutely horrible, but the damage is already done. I grab the lunch boxes and walk into the living room where there are pirates singing on TV and my son is sitting with a crushed spirit. His pants are on, but his feet are still bare. The offending socks have been thrown across the room in a ball. I stoop down to pick them up and unroll them, then slowly put them on his icy feet. He will not make eye contact with me. He sits, sniffling, staring at the pirates, probably imagining what better mothers they would make than I do. I cannot say a word, no “I’m sorry” escapes my lips, although the f-bomb managed to come out so easily only minutes before. I grab our shoes and hand him his, then sit to put mine on. He begins to cry again.

            “Mommy, I can’t get my shoes on.” Of course he can, but do I make him do it himself or do I help and teach him that tears and guilt trips are the way to get things accomplished? I hesitate for only a second before I grab them and start putting them on his feet. I am holding back my own tears as I stick the Velcro across the shoe, imagining how quickly those feet will grow and how much I will miss him needing my help for everything. I still say nothing.

            Once our jackets are on and his face washed, we run out to the car, loaded down with school bags, lunch boxes, and stuffed animals that are critical for naptime. I buckle him into his booster seat and he begins to cry again.

            “Mommy, I’m sorry I made my socks into sock puppets. I love you, Mommy, I won’t do it again!” Oh, God, I am that mother! I am the one who sucks all the joy out of the little things in life and gets lost in the big picture. I am failing, and scarring my child for the rest of his life. I look at the clock on the dashboard, already 15 minutes late. I need to tell him that it’s okay, I need him to know that it is me, not him. A good mother would hug him and tell him what a wonderful and special little boy he is. The ticking of the digital clock beats in time with my heart. I feel every second as it slips by, reminding me of the perfectly coiffed parents in matching socks with hair combed, walking out of the school after dropping their children off on time and smugly watching my new version of the walk of shame into the building as we run in out of breath and bedraggled as if we just rolled out of bed.

            I carefully keep my voice even and fight for calm, “Honey, we’ll talk about this later, we’re really late for school.”

            We drive in silence, completely child-inappropriate hip-hop playing on the radio, sniffles emanating from the back seat in time with the beat. I can’t bear to look at him, but steal glances every couple of minutes to see if I can see the emotional scars cutting across his skin. He won’t make eye contact again, and I want to scream.

            I begin to get angry again. Damnit! Who does he think he is? How many times did I tell him to get dressed? I had every right to yell at him! We do this dance every morning, and he still hasn’t gotten the hang of it. I mean, really, it’s February, school started in September. This same routine has been reenacted every morning for months. I shouldn’t be feeling badly, he’s old enough to get himself dressed and out the door in a timely manner. I’m the Mom, it’s my job to teach him responsibility and to stay on task. If he doesn’t like it, tough, welcome to the real world. I’m doing him a favor. Someday, when he’s a tough-as-nails CEO who doesn’t take any shit and runs his Fortune 500 company like a concentration camp, he’ll thank me for making him into the kind of man who knows how to get things done.

            The dramatics continue in the backseat the rest of the way to school, all five miles of the trip. I mentally begin to run through my day, the critically important things that I am now behind on since we got our late start to the morning. We pull up to the school after an interminable seven minutes in the car together. The battle of wills between four and thirty-six exhausting for both of us, although neither one will give in. I walk around the car to open the rear door and let him out. He takes his time getting out of the car, going slower than usual, climbing down Mt. Everest, making sure of each step before placing the next one. I can’t handle it any more. The weight of my itinerary pushing on my temples, I become a banshee, shrieking, wailing, and swirling through the parking lot as school buses glide past, soothing yellow sides glaring in my peripheral vision, my son bathed in my shadow, staring and crying, not understanding my frustration and seeing only my anger. I feel the seconds tick through my veins.

            Something breaks through. I don’t know whether it is his tears or simple reason forcing itself into my psyche. The internal clock I’ve been fighting against all morning suddenly stops ticking. I drop to my knees in the cold, damp parking lot and put my eyes level with his. He is forced to make eye contact finally, his racking sobs slowing as I gently wrap my arms around his tiny shoulders.

            “Shhhh, baby boy. It’s alright. Hey, hey, kiddo, Mommy’s here, it’s going to be okay. Mommy’s not mad at you. Mommy’s just upset we’re running so late. Don’t cry anymore. You didn’t do anything wrong. Shhhh.”

            Seconds tick by and become a minute, maybe two. They have no impact any more. I hold him until his body stops heaving and my guilt becomes slightly less oppressive. I dig for a tissue and blot the tears from his eyes. I wipe his nose and I see a scar or two start to fade slightly. I hug him again, holding his innocence for just another second before it too begins to fade. When we’ve both regained our composure, I take his hand in mine and we walk into school together, tearstained faces completing our walk of shame. He hangs his coat on the hook labeled with his name while I stow his stuffed pig, his best friend, in the cubby hole above along with his lunch.

We look at each other, eyes puffy from crying, and he smiles at me, the most beautiful smile in the world.

            “Mommy’s really sorry for losing her cool, I love you kiddo. Do you think after I pick you up from school today we can go home and have a puppet show?”

            He nods at me, we smile at each other and I hug him as tight as I dare, for just one instant, there is nothing else in the world and nothing more important than this little person in my arms. For just a precious few seconds, all guilt, all responsibility, and all time has become unimportant in the face of a little boy and the promise of sock puppets.