It had been a busy week (the first week of school!), and we were all looking forward to the weekend. On Saturday, we ran errands in the morning and managed to have lunch al fresco before we got caught in the rain and headed home. We puttered around the house and my son T divided his time between playing video games and watching the women’s U.S. Open tennis final with us.
For dinner, Mark made cheeseburger sliders. As we were chatting, T dropped his burger, and it fell apart on his plate. I saw T try to reassemble his burger twice and struggle, and I instantly started feeling anxious. Thoughts began racing through my mind. What’s going on? Why isn’t he putting it back together? I felt a knot in the pit of my stomach.
So that I wouldn’t do or say anything I’d regret, I excused myself from the table and told them I wasn’t feeling well. Oh, how I wish I had done that.
Here’s what really happened, but let me provide some context first. T struggles with visual perception, sequence recall, and motor planning. He’s had occupational therapy to improve his handwriting and hand-eye coordination skills since he was a little kid. With time, targeted practice, and repetition, these skills have improved.
First, I showed him how to put the slider back together. Then, I talked him through the steps—bun, patty, bun—which usually helps. It didn’t this time. Then I lost it. It was the F trifecta: fatigue, frustration, and fear all building on each other. I yelled, “How many cheeseburgers do you think you’ve had in your life?” I grabbed the cheeseburger, reassembled it, and haphazardly tossed it on his plate. Then, I headed upstairs to wallow in regret.
It wasn’t about the cheeseburger. It never is. In my mind, that cheeseburger was the gateway to my deepest fears. Am I failing as a mom? When I’m gone, will someone be there to help, if needed? I thought about T’s village and our collective time, energy, and money expended for him to thrive. I thought about how he sometimes comes downstairs with his shirt on backwards, or the heel of his sock sticking out from the top of his foot. I envisioned a house full of lists, providing prompts on how to get dressed, clean his room, get ready in the morning, etc.
Of course, there’s more than one side to the story. T could see my growing frustration, and he froze. I can identify with that. I used to get like that as a child.
From upstairs, I overhead my partner Mark diffusing the situation. When I returned to the table, I promptly apologized to T. “I’m sorry I raised my voice,” I said. “I shouldn’t have reacted that way, and it was wrong.” He accepted my apology, albeit tearfully.
We all have hard days and moments. During those times, any step in the right direction helps. Along this journey, I’ve learned to identify those steps to keep moving forward. One, I modeled to T that you should apologize when you’re in the wrong. Two, I emailed his occupational therapist to speak in more detail about what happened and how we can better support visual perception and motor planning challenges.
It’s never about the cheeseburger. As parents, we wake up the next day and try again.
by Lindsey Carson 
by Jess Ronne 
