The car seat is Liam’s arch nemesis. Getting him into it can set him off. It doesn’t matter if we’ve had a wonderful day or if school went well. If he doesn’t want to sit in that seat, the entire moment unravels.
I hate pinning him down. He’s strong. The screaming builds, and it turns into a full meltdown. From the outside, it might look like I’m used to this by now. Inside, my anxiety rises fast and high. I wish he understood that the car seat keeps him safe. I wish I could explain something once and have it click.
He’s finally buckled in, and I shut the door. My shoulders and chest are tight, like I just finished a powerlifting set. The moment has my nervous system in a choke hold. If I could, I would call Matt and say, “Come get your child. I need a minute.” Instead, I exhale slowly and walk back to the driver’s seat.
I feel everything that Liam feels. When I’m frustrated, I feel his frustration too. He can’t communicate the way he wants to yet, and reasoning through the moment isn’t always possible.
It isn’t always this hard. When he’s happy — deeply, fully happy — I feel that too. When he feels accomplished, I celebrate it with him. When he’s anxious or sad, I carry it in my body. I’m highly sensitive. I can usually understand his point of view, even when he can’t explain it.
But I’m often blind to my own needs. Sometimes all I want is to close the bedroom door and sit in the dark. Why do I suppress instead of process?
After dinner, we sit on the couch as a family. He watches his show. Matt and I watch ours. Liam eventually gets up and sits next to me. Our bodies aren’t tense anymore. I wrap my arm around him, and he leans in.
For a moment, everything softens.
More Than Shower Thoughts 
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