Not unlike most days, her morning does not start out very well:  in fact, she cannot remember the last time she did not have to holler at someone:

• GET UP!!!
• GET READY!!!
• HURRY UP!!!
• ARE YOU ABSOLUTELY SURE YOU HAVE EVERYTHING?!?
• DON'T FORGET YOUR LUNCH!!!
• YOU'RE GOING TO MISS THE BUS (AGAIN!)
• WAIT, SO WHOSE BACKPACK IS THIS?!?

Then her phone will ring; she immediately recognizes the number and begins to feel the first pangs of regret when wondering, "What now?!?"

Another migraine; she will listen and then she will silently nod her head, as the nurse asks for a verbal approval, knowing very well that she did so send in the paperwork, twice before, because all she ever wants is for the pain to stop.

She hangs up the phone and mentally begins to plot out her day, which may or may not include a 90 minute drive to pick up a sick teen.

She hollers (once more) to her kids, to make sure they wear comfortable shoes, because she will NOT be driving them to school.

Then her phone will ring (again) and now she begins to wonder, "Could this day get ANY worse?"

Yes, yes it could and if she had a dollar for each time she's hollered, "AREN'T THOSE SHORTS A LITTLE TOO SHORT?!?" she'd be able to afford to keep up with her children's growth spurt(s).

At this point, she begins to wonder if her kids are trying to kill her, and she may or may not have said it, out loud.

She will then sit in the cold metal chair, where thousands of others (very much smaller than her, btw) have waited for disciplinary actions, mentally willing herself to sit straight-backed and sure, when she swears she feels as if she is beginning to melt from all the disapproving glances, feeling as if she were 12 years-old, all over again.

Her almost 12 year-old daughter will walk into the office, her head down in a futile attempt to hide the streaks of dried tears (seems she did in fact, say it out loud) and she will feel as if yet another small piece of her has died.

She will then hand her youngest child a pair of pants, along with her science book, stroke the back of her head, look straight into her chocolate-colored eyes and say, "See you later, sweetie."

She drives home in silence, wiping away the tears at every stop light, hoping that she does not pass anyone she knows.

A car blows its horn; she waves and smiles.

Then her phone will ring (for the third time, this morning), but this time she tells the nurse that she will be there in about an hour.

She will then take a few minutes, to herself, and write it ALL down.

She grabs her purse, puts on a pair of sunglasses and, for the first time today, will begin to forgive herself for being that mom.

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