We were driving in my soccer mom van when it happened: I had a complete mom meltdown after my kids whined at me one too many times. But you know what? We all survived to tell the tale. And you can, too.
I had about a million things running through my head after picking up my youngest two from school on our way to their weekly dance classes. Their older brother was at practice, and their older sister was chilling at home until her dad got home from work.
Wednesdays are already not my favorite, as I’m forced/voluntarily signed up to sit at the dance studio for more than two hours while my daughters, ages 8 and 6, tap and jeté their hearts out. Plus, I had to catch up on freelance work, and was dreading it.
Meanwhile, all signs at my full-time job pointed to impending layoffs as the stock market crashed, inflation soared, and tariffs loomed. I had also just barely emotionally survived another chaotic school pickup at two separate buildings without anyone getting hit by a car peeling out of the parking lots. To make things even more “exciting,” I was due to start my period any day.
It was the perfect recipe for an emotional outburst — and I swear, my daughters could smell it in the air.
As I attempted to concentrate on the road during our 15-minute drive from the second school directly to the dance studio, the girls were preoccupied with their older sister’s book fair haul, mostly consisting of the good stuff — cool pens, a diary with a fuzzy cover and lock, a poster. You know, the only stuff students actually care about at the twice-yearly Scholastic events. The little sis insisted on holding and using the newly purchased goodies, prompting loud protests from the rightful owner.
“Guys, stop yelling. I’m driving, and it’s super distracting,” I warned them.
“But she’s trying to use my glitter pen!”
“You said I could!”
“Nuh-uh. Besides, it’s mine. I bought it.”
“Um, I think I’m the one who bought it, actually,” I reminded her.
“Can I have my snack now?” the little one asked after a beat.
“Just wait until we get to dance so you don’t get crumbs all over my car,” I answered, to which she whined, “But I’m hungryyyyyyy.”
“I think you’ll survive, girlie.”
“Can I use your hotspot so I can play?” the older sibling asked.
“Dude, I’m driving, I need to pay attention to the…” I pointed out but the younger one interrupted, “I want to listen to ‘Electric Touch!’ [by Taylor Swift]!”
“UGH, we ALWAYS listen to that song! Play ‘Pink Pony Club’!”
“No, we did last time!”
“NUH-UH.”
“YEAH-HUH!!”
“Mommy, she just called me a b—h!”
“No, I said bi-atch!”
That’s it. I’d had it. I was hanging on by a thread and they just drop-kicked my last nerve over the edge of the cliff and then metaphorically twerked in celebration.
I pulled into the nearest parking lot, pumped the brakes a tad too vigorously and unleashed my pent-up rage that mostly had nothing to do with their current squabble. Next, I blasted them for name-calling while using four-letter words myself. I called them ungrateful. I asked them if they wanted to get in a car accident because they asked me to do a million things and couldn’t keep their voices at a reasonable volume so I could pay attention. Then I threatened to drive home and skip dance altogether.
And then I cried.
They sat in stunned silence as I rested my forehead on the steering wheel and the tears flowed. I eventually took deep breaths and attempted to pull myself together. After I wiped my eyes, I put the van in drive and continued our trek to the dance studio as my daughters uttered not another word.
I had a complete meltdown because my kids wouldn’t stop whining. It wasn’t pretty, but we survived. And then I kept on keeping on, as mothers do — because in the end, that’s all we really can do.
