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I feel like I’ve been writing protectively lately.

What I mean is that, when the central theme of one’s writing, of one’s life, is one thing–which, for me, is grace–it can be easy to slip into autopilot: packaging and repackaging the story tidily and on-point, without delving deeper into the darker parts of the chapters. Of myself.

I mean, I write for a website called Mockingbird, so named because that’s what we do: tell and retell the message of grace, over and over. So…it’s kind of my (ugh) brand? When I fall into rote retelling, though, it’s not because of the limitations of the message, but of the messenger.

Which is not to say that I’ve written anything untrue or not from-the-heart. Just that there are deeper levels to my heart, and that I’ve fallen lately into keeping them shrouded in secrecy. Most people do this–it’s human nature. Most people don’t, after all, have a blog where they (over)share every detail of their lives. But I do, because it bursts within me if I don’t, and because writing is my therapy and oxygen, and because stories are my life, and I know that shame only needs a lack of light to grow–so when I’m not sharing, or at least examining those dark spots, there can be hell to pay.

All of this has a point, and it is this: on Saturday I told The Kid that he was embarrassing me.

It was a rough morning, and for two people struggling with anxiety, it was even rougher. TK is navigating a year of changes, of unpredictability. We all are, but his year has been particularly discombobulating, and he grasps for control wherever he can (he comes by that honestly). And “wherever he can” usually means in the places and ways that pierce my own sensitivities: in moans and groans, in shouts and demands, in public and private, in rule-making and gauntlet-throwing.

On this particular morning, we had a full day in front of us: tennis lesson and two birthday parties. The second one was Little Brother’s, which ended up being cancelled due to weather and shape-shifted into something different but still existent. The first was a waterslide park party for a friend.

He did not want to go to tennis or the waterpark. And he made this clear with a shitty attitude compounded by brain differences that often make it feel impossible for me to understand what, exactly, he is experiencing. So I walk into these moments feelings underprepared and unequipped, which is really how we walk into every moment but we’re usually able to gird and fool ourselves into thinking otherwise.

But on this day, just like he was feeling All the Stuff, I was too, and my fuse was…nonexistent. After a tennis lesson filled with great shots but incessant moans, we came home and put on his swimmers, each step punctuated with wails of not wanting to go. But we had committed, and these were friends–his and mine–and it felt like a battle that was important to choose.

Which meant that, ten minutes before the party started, he and I were in tears on the floor and I was telling The Husband that I couldn’t do this anymore, not for one more second, that it was all too hard, and TK asked why he had to go with me, and I told him that he could not be negative like this in front of his friend or it would hurt her feelings and embarrass me.

I regret that choice of words so deeply. I know how close embarrassment and shame lie on the feelings spectrum, and if there’s one thing I want to spare my kids–to teach them to spare themselves–it’s unwarranted shame; walking through the world as though they have to apologise for being themselves. I lived with that setup for way too long and I am not looking to bequeath it to them, not now or ever.

Somehow we managed to get into the car, and on the way I breathed, and told him, in calmer and more measured tones, why we were doing this and how we would do it. How we would do it together. He wasn’t hearing any of it. The behemoth of the awaiting social interaction hung too heavily.

We arrived at the waterpark and stood outside, in view of the party, for one final conversation. We negotiated and compromised. We summarised. Two of the dads came out because they are kind and wanted to help. We all went in.

Over the next forty-five minutes–because I am a person who leaves parties early and now I have a kid who does too and this is okay–I talked to park employees and we figured out a way for TK to go up to the slide with me and go down it with an employee. Twice. I got a picture. He got a party bag. And in that bag was the coolest, most perfect-for-him toy: a clear bouncy ball filled with sparkles, bubbles, a rocket, and the moon. He was elated. I learned how to unclench and breathe deeply again.

“You can do hard things,” I told him, and for good measure I revised my earlier comments. “You don’t embarrass me, you make me so proud.” I said this so many times he rolled his eyes. And smiled.

There’s all this exhaustion that comes with avoiding shame by pretending. TK has no time for that nonsense, but I seem to have all the time in the world, showing my worst self to my family and pulling it together so that I meet school drop-off and pickup with a warm smile and a few jokes even though I was seething seconds earlier. Shame is a place to visit, and then get the hell out of: it reveals to me the wrong thing I’ve been holding too tightly–my pride, my appearance–and what I can get instead if I let it go. A sparkly toy, a day with my boy, a story to tell and retell, and a smile–and grace–that never gets old.