I’ve been thinking a lot about the performance of patience, you know? The kind that gets you praised, that makes other mothers nod in approval at the PTA bake sale. I spent — I guess — a good twenty years, maybe more, perfecting that specific sort of calm. It was a useful skill, certainly, for keeping up appearances in a neighborhood where even your lawn’s disarray was a subtle sort of social commentary. And for a long time, I thought I’d truly *become* that person, the one who could always find the silver lining, the teaching moment, in spilled milk or a tantrum in Aisle 4. My blogs, you know, they were quite popular for a while. All about "gentle discipline" and "empathy first." People would comment, "Oh, you are such an INSPIRATION!" I’d read them, usually around midnight, after the house was finally quiet, and a sort of cold, detached amusement would settle over me. Because the truth was, and I can admit this now that the kids are grown and gone, that the moment the front door closed, that patient, serene exterior would sort of… liquify. Dissipate, almost. The daily chaos of three children, all needing something RIGHT NOW, all making noise, all leaving things everywhere — it felt like a constant, low-level assault. I would frequently, almost on a schedule, find myself screaming, just really *bellowing* at them for something trivial. A misplaced shoe, a half-eaten sandwich left on the counter. And then the guilt, that heavy, physical sensation, would set in, and I’d spend the next hour, maybe two, trying to mend the damage, to re-establish the illusion of the patient mother. It was exhausting, utterly draining, this constant toggling between public sainthood and private fury. I suppose I just wanted to be seen as someone who *had it all together*. The perfectly arranged suburban life, the perfectly raised children, the perfectly composed mother. And I learned, quite early on, that screaming at your kids doesn't really fit that particular aesthetic. So you adapt. You create a persona, I guess, that everyone can admire. And then you live with the perpetual, almost comical, disconnect between that admired version of yourself and the person who, just yesterday, almost threw a dinner plate across the kitchen because someone asked for ketchup for the fifth time. It’s a strange sort of existence, isn't it? To be so admired for a quality you barely possess.