When You’re the Grown-Up and Still Want to Slam the Door

This week, I had a full-blown shoe-related emotional crisis. We were already running late because mornings never run smoothly in our house. As the mom, it’s my job to not only get everyone out the door, but to build in time for the inevitable meltdowns. (Spoiler: I never build in enough time.)

My three-year-old, who is deeply committed to footwear as both a fashion statement and a form of self-expression, could not find the “right” shoes. When I finally found them, she immediately ripped them off because I didn’t “close them slow enough and all the way down.”

If you’ve ever been rushing, overstimulated, and then told you did something wrong that you didn’t even understand… you know the rage bubble I’m talking about. There I was, still trying to find my own shoes, grab backpacks, pack snacks, and get to the car and I had to stop, not once, not twice, but three separate times to rebuckle velcro slowly enough.

I could literally feel my patience sliding off like butter on a hot pancake. I wanted to say every bad word in the book. I wanted to roll my eyes, stomp my feet, and throw those shoes across the room because… I’m sorry, what?! I didn’t (which is good), but my tone was sharper than I wanted. And because the universe loves irony, my older kid picked up on my frustration. She looked at me, dead serious, and said,

“Mommy, take a breath.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. There should be a course for parenting called Crisis Management 101.

The Inner Toddler

I try to model what I teach. “I’m feeling overwhelmed,” I say. “I’m going to take a deep breath.” Meanwhile, on the inside, my head is screaming, What in the actual f—?!

But I’m an adult. Allegedly. I can manage. Right?

Except, sometimes, my inner toddler escapes. She’s whiny, dramatic, and occasionally communicates only through exaggerated silence or aggressive sighing. She’s triggered by overstimulation, unmet expectations, and the kind of chaos that makes your brain itch.

It’s not the big things that get her. Not the bills, not the logistics, it’s the little things. The cleaning up the same mess four times. The child who decides to play Memory instead of getting dressed after you’ve asked six times. And then, when they finally feel rushed, they’re mad at you because you made them feel rushed.

Cue the deep, guttural “WHEW.”

For someone who’s a social worker and teaches emotional regulation for a living… my own implementation? HAHAHAHA. When my inner toddler escapes, I’m usually looking for connection. A hug. A reset. Sometimes an “I’m sorry.” Sometimes a Google search on how to have patience when you have none left.

The Scene in the Kitchen

Meanwhile, my husband just quietly picks up the cereal bowl like a hostage negotiator trying not to make sudden movements. He knows the signs, the clenched jaw, the “don’t ask me one more thing” energy radiating off me. Don’t get me wrong, he’ll step in when he needs to, but it takes a lot more to rattle him. He’s calm, steady, patientt: basically the human version of deep breathing. And man, am I jealous.

Because the truth is, our kids are always watching. They see how we respond, how we talk, how we breathe when we’re frustrated. They hear the sighs, the tone, the muttered “come on” under our breath.

They pick up everything.

The other day, my almost-seven-year-old crossed her arms and said, “Mom, if you got up earlier, you wouldn’t feel so rushed.” And my three-year-old? She stomped her tiny feet and said, “I need space.”

It’s humbling. They’re watching who we are, not just what we say.

The Door-Slamming Fantasy

When you’re the grown-up, storming out just means coming back five minutes later to reheat your coffee. There’s no dramatic exit music, no fade-to-black.. just you, standing in the kitchen with a lukewarm mug and someone yelling from the other room asking where their water bottle is.

That’s the real difference between us and our kids. It’s not that we don’t want to slam the door, oh, we do. We just know we’ll have to walk back through it. Because dinner still needs to be made. Someone still needs a snack. Life doesn’t pause for our tantrums.

So instead of slamming, we do what adults do. We sigh. Loudly. We mutter to ourselves like an old sitcom character. We clean something aggressively, because sometimes the sound of scrubbing feels like control in a world that doesn’t listen to us about socks. We channel all that frustration into movement, wiping counters, picking up (and maybe throwing away) toys, folding laundry, like maybe if we can just do something, we won’t feel like we’re unraveling.

And eventually, when the storm passes, we do what our kids are still learning how to do. We repair.

We circle back. We soften our tone. We crouch down, look them in the eye, and say,

“I shouldn’t have yelled.”
“That was a hard morning.”
“I love you.”

We know that slamming the door doesn’t actually fix it. The repair does. Honestly, that might be the most grown-up thing any of us do all day.

The Lesson (for Them and for Us)

The truth is, most days aren’t defined by perfect parenting moments, they’re held together by the small recoveries. A deep breath you didn’t think you had left. An apology whispered over waffles. A smile that sneaks in when you swore you were out of patience.

We think growth looks like staying calm all the time, but maybe it’s just noticing faster when you’re not. Maybe it’s catching yourself mid-sigh, choosing softer words, or circling back when you don’t.

That’s what I hope my kids learn. That emotional regulation is hard for everyone, not just them. That even moms lose it sometimes. That love doesn’t go away, even when patience does.

We’re all just adults trying not to stomp our feet while teaching tiny humans to use theirs to walk away calmly.