My son's freckled face burned red. His tiny ten-year-old body sank into his seat as he stared intently out the window at the fields full of cattle passing by in a blur. I glanced over at his dad, white-knuckling the steering wheel and undoubtedly wishing he could be anywhere else at that moment. It was time.
I'm 60% song lyrics, and 30% useless trivia. There are far too many beautiful moments with my children for me to keep them all up there in the 10% left, especially when I can't seem to forget my many parenting fails.
"Jessie Hoag is a WebMD-diagnosing, anxiety-ridden, hypochondriac mother of three clinging to her sense of humor like a life preserver. Join her at the chicken bacon ranch and watch as the beautifully horrific shitshow unravels..."
Maybe you get in the car and just drive, never worrying that along the way you might meet some asshole who's texting or trying to eat fucking pancakes while he drives. That's good. You shouldn't think about that.
Any parent trying to raise humans in this world has to have a healthy amount of rage, lest we crumble beneath the weight of fear.