I went to bed the other night with one more companion than usual: a sense of self-satisfaction cradled me to sleep, the result of nailing this parenting thing. I hadn’t yelled all day, hadn’t fantasized about running away. I’d provided multiple meals for my children and cleaned up after them without dissolving into tears on the floor among spilled milk and tossed bread. I’d taken The Kid to the potty hourly and refused to lose my mind when he fought back every time, even though he’d just gone for his therapist multiple times in a row, PER USUAL. Yes, I was feeling good. My home was orderly and the summer, instead of looming ahead like a dark cloud, glimmered with promise.

This was Friday. The first day of summer vacation.

It took about forty-eight hours for my serenity to unravel, and this was over a holiday weekend. WHEN I HAD HELP. I wasn’t alone in the trenches, which would have made for somewhat of an excuse (at least it does every typical weekday). But unravel it did, on Sunday morning, all over the bathroom floor and right beside a turd that emptied from TK’s pull-up when I attempted one of our potty sessions and he thrashed wildly, flakes of shit peppering the floor and walls like an apocalyptic decor option. I yelled. I cursed. I lost my ever-loving mind, and summer hadn’t even unpacked its bags yet.

I’ve been a parent for four summers now, a quartet of four-seasoned years, twelve of their months permeated by stifling heat, oppressive humidity, and the God-forsaken neighborhood pool. I think it was that pool that did me in–that and original sin, but let’s save the theology for later–because we went three times over the weekend. You’d think four June-through-August cycles of the same routine, of daily running out of fucks to give, would have left me either steely with resolve or too drained to care, but neither would be the case. The pool haunts my dreams, and here is why.

TK has never been a fan of the water. Anything larger than a bathtub and he approaches with CIA-level suspicion. Maybe he senses that this is just another giant toilet we’re leading toward, and we know his aversion to those. When he was a baby, he would fuss and cry and then give in, leaning back in the giant float we’d brought as a crutch, and though the experience was about the opposite of a lazy afternoon in the Caribbean, it was bearable. With each progressive summer, though, he’s grown more uncomfortable with the pool, more distrustful of it. To a degree, I can’t blame him: it is strange that adults are so insistent upon our children urinating in one spot while we abandon all qualms about it between Memorial and Labor Days. And our pool is a special breed, filled to overflowing with adults and teenagers and, in particular, small children who aspire, via the swim team, to Olympic-level greatness while flailing around spraying water in my hair. If circumstances were different, I might be okay with this scene, social anxiety and fear of large crowds notwithstanding: this past weekend, for example, there was a keg two days in a row right outside the clubhouse, and once our neighborhood’s team was banned from a swim meet because the parents were drinking too much. To which I would say both, “Really, guys?” and “That’s awesome.”

But the pool, much like summer itself with its crop tops and exposed midriffs, has a way of revealing too much. And this year, with TK’s aquatic anxiety at a peak, it revealed that maybe I shouldn’t have included Teach TK to Swim on the goal list. Maybe I should have just started with Avoid Silverback Gorillas and high-fived myself at that daily success.

TK has a method of dealing with unfamiliar places, and though I’d prefer it be more like mine–down a glass of wine, or shrink into a corner with a book, or just avoid them, it is this: he circles the perimeter repeatedly, finding points of interest along the way–typically around the outskirts–and returning to them for investigation. He watched with interest as The Husband swam Little Brother around the shallow end, but provided a definitive “NO” when asked if he wanted to try the same. Finally, he located his Safe Zone, and to my chagrin it was located right between the two diving boards, where kids lined up to hone their competitive jumps and, while waiting, stared at us.

Again: not a trip to the Caribbean.

I tried to find a way to be okay with this, a monologue to talk myself off the ledge of unwanted attention. I prayed. I summoned my not-giving-a-fuck-ness, which always seems to tarry when I need it most. I urged TK to a less noticeable spot. Finally, I gave up. I sat down on the ground and invited him to join me–and he did. And like a couple of unrepentant assholes, we sat and watched each kid dive off the board. At some point I looked down and saw that TK was grinning ear to ear. So…math redo: make that one asshole. C’est moi, PER USUAL.

The fears didn’t go away, and I know they won’t: the sense that we’re racing against the clock, a timer within my heart counting down the time we have before kids get mean and feelings get hurt (mine, mostly), before the world is less interesting and more menacing. Can we outrun this clock, I wonder, given the progress he’s made in just a year, the words spilling out daily and his other skills growing alongside them? I will do anything to protect him even as I know that I can’t, not completely. It sucks. It’s life. I sat there with him, these familiar concerns bouncing around my head like pinballs, then my mind started drifting. I got some writing ideas. I thought about dinner. I calmed down. I didn’t get any answers, but the scenery started changing: the view came into more focus. I saw what he was seeing from this place we had found for ourselves. And it wasn’t a bad spot. It was actually kind of wonderful.

“All will be well; all is well,” we sang on Sunday, after my Blowup in the Bathroom, and the guilt leaked out of me with the tears that overflowed from my eyes. Once again I had found my spot. Strange how the words felt false and true at the same time; wishful thinking and naming of truth. All will be well? It’s what I say I believe. Do I? All is well? Are you joking? I would beg to differ. But also…the words echoed, washed over me, filled spaces deeper than my feelings and made promises lasting longer than the summer.