You know those days?

The ones where you are late for everything and your better half is massively helping but he’s late for everything too, and your energy is pulled in a thousand different directions and you’re questioning your sanity for trying to have two jobs and raise two kids and, incidentally, wondering who the hell was in charge of your calendar when you ended up with 5 out of town trips in 4 weeks (3 of which involve piling your kids into the van for hours of whiny insanity), and you’re staring right past all the blessings in your life (which you realize on some level and the guilt of that gets added to the pile) because you can only seem to focus on the messages telling you that you’re not enough?

And then one of your two favorite kids is having that same day, and he feels like he’s not enough, and that just wrenches your heart from your chest because he’s more than everything but you can’t make him understand that while you’re also trying to get him out the door with his falling-apart backpack, while not exploding about how hard things are for first graders today. And you know that you thinking you’re not enough is a contributing reason to him feeling like he’s not enough, and if that’s not the start to a damn fine negative feedback spiral, I don’t know what is.

And suddenly, acutely, you wish your parents were around. Nearby to pitch in would be great. Maybe to take the kid who’s not having a bad day but still desperately needs attention to school so you can focus on the kid who is having a bad day and needs you a little more. Maybe to drop off the dry cleaning that’s been sitting in a pile for three weeks or finish loading the dishwasher from where you collapsed in exhaustion last night. Nearby would be great. Or just alive would do. That simple, taken-for-granted voice on the other end of the line, not in the middle of the mess with you, but 100% and unequivocally on your side and empathetic because they remember a time when you were more than everything and if they were here they’d be as desperate to make things better for you as you are for your own kid.

Maybe.

But you can’t question that now, because if you start pulling at that thread you’ll never make it past the tardy slip and on to the rest of your day. You’ll just collapse in tears over the imperfections of yourself and your dead parents, while the traffic cop by the elementary school decides if you need a hug or some kind of crying ticket. And as you drive past him for real, holding it together and trying to sound like Reassuring Mom to the backseat gallery, you’re wondering if your own Reassuring Mom was right and she’s still with you somehow in her version of heaven, laughing at you with a gentle, gnarled hand on your shoulder. Or if your dad was right and he’s not with you at all, because he’s not anywhere, because we die and that’s it.

And it’s like he’s reading your thoughts, because the kid having the worst morning ever says, “Mom? Is God real?”

And your first reaction is, “Dude. You are asking the wrong person.”

But you don’t say that, because that’s not what Reassuring Mom does. Reassuring Mom whispers (and she sounds like Cate Blanchett as Galadriel, but she’s handing you a blueberry muffin instead of the Light of Earendil), “Yes. There is light and love and purpose in the universe, and our lives have meaning beyond anything we can know on Earth.”

But the Voice of Hopeless Negativity isn’t far behind, like the guy who follows you around at a party talking about impending economic collapse and zombie apocalypse no matter how politely you try to dodge him. “Are you kidding me? God? Weren’t you paying attention at the Planetarium? None of this means anything. You might as well tell everyone to fuck off and go live at the beach, sister, because we are all just running around like beheaded chickens living our meaningless lives on an inescapably warming planet orbiting a dying star.”

I hate that guy.

In the end, the one who speaks is Honest Mom. “I don’t know, sweetie. What do you think?”

The kid having the worst morning ever shrugs. “Did you just cross the double yellow line? Are you supposed to do that?”

“It’s okay if you’re turning.”

“Oh. Okay.”

And I guess we’re done. Time for coffee – extra strength, please.

MJ Pullen

M.J. Pullen is a distracted writer and the mom of two boys in Roswell, Georgia, where she is absolutely late for something important right now. Her books include quirky romantic comedies and playful women's fiction. She blogs erratically with writing advice, random observations, and reflections on raising very loud kids and dogs. Join her Distracted Readers newsletter list for updates, free content, giveaways and more.