One parent’s account of caring:

Read with a grain of salt

The Triggers and The Blink

A story of rage, restraint, and falling flat on your face in front of kids with crutches
It had been a rough few days.
Yes—this is right after those three magical days where I thought, “Wow. I got this. I’m built for this. I should write a book on how to manage Angelman Syndrome and still thrive.”
Well, that dream nosedived quicker than my Wi-Fi during a Teams meeting.
Now, everything I do is tied to how he is.
And he was in chaos. Deep chaos.
Restless. Overstimulated. Irritated. Not sleeping.
Which meant I was not sleeping. I was overstimulated. I was irritated.
And one wrong look at me? Would’ve made me snap and take your head off—politely, of course. Now, I consider myself to be quite and shy…at work seen is calm and collected
So that morning, I was wrecked.
Barely standing. Running on fumes.
And I had a bilateral meeting with my manager in just a couple hours. But first, I had to drop off my son at the care center.
The plan was simple.
No drama. No energy wasted. Maximum efficiency.
I parked as close to the building as I could—right in front of the first gate.
Now, for context: there are two gates, about ten meters (approx 30 ft?) apart. But ten meters, in this state? Felt like the Ironman triathlon. So I chose the first gate.
Minimum effort. Maximum survival, Minimum effort. Maximum survival, Minimum effort. Maximum survival
Repeat that like a tired parent’s mantra.
I get him out of the car.
Except today, he’s decided to go full jelly mode.
No standing. No helping. Just limp resistance.
So now I’m carrying his full weight—plus his lunch bag, his backpack, my keys, my phone—basically everything but my sanity. That was left behind somewhere between midnight wake-ups and diaper #3
I waddle toward the gate.
I reach for the handle.
I push it down.
And…
It doesn’t open!
I snap.
TRIGGER.
I firmly grip the handle and rip the handle off.
I yank the entire gate off its hinges.
and toss that no good piece of metal out of my path of least resistance
Behind the gate btw?
A full audience of kids at the care center.
Some in wheelchairs. Some with crutches. Some just vibing.
They look at me, wide-eyed. Like, “dangerous man”
And then…
I blink.
Just like that, reality resets.
I’m still standing there, hand on the handle. Luckily no one notices how hard I am gripping the handle at this point.
The gate? Perfectly intact. I ease my grip
My face? Calm. Relaxed. Even smiling.
I nod politely at the kids, who are now clapping—not because of anything I did, but just because clapping is fun.
I turn. Walk the ten meters of shame.
Reach the other gate.
That one opens.
Of course it does.
I drop him off at his classroom. Quick goodbye…with message already got meds, pooped, porridge and sleep…
Success. Phase one complete.
Now: back to the car. Time to get to work. Pretend I’m a functioning adult.
As I walk back, I must have miscalculated my step, because the slight height difference between the wheelchair ramp and the walkway suddenly turns into Mount Everest.
I trip.
In trying to recover, my legs start, try to start moving faster than my upper body.
I look like a drunk sprinter trying to escape a swarm of bees.
Momentum wins. Gravity finishes me off.
I fall. Flat. On. The. Concrete.
Right in front of the same kids. Remember…
Kids in wheelchairs. With knee braces. On crutches.
And they are howling with laughter.
Like full joy. Peak entertainment. At me
I, a grown man, unable to walk a ramp.
So, I laugh too.
I get up, dust off my shirt, pretend my soul didn’t shatter, and I drive to work.
I meet my manager outside.
We’re going for coffee before heading to my office.
As we walk toward the office, we pass my car.
He sees the giant stroller strapped in the back of my pickup.
“Hey… what’s that contraption?”
“Stroller,” I say. “For my son.”
“But… doesn’t he walk?”
“Short distances,” I reply. “It also… contains him.”
We keep walking. He asks how things are going.
“It’s been rough,” I say.
“No sleep. Stress. The usual.”
And then…
He makes the mistake. All well intended of course, but he says:
“Yeah… I understand.”
TRIGGER!!
I SNAP!!
I grab him by the collar.
I slam him onto my desk.
And in full Batman voice, I growl:
Civilian!p
“You understand? No. You have two adult kids who are engineers. You get eight hours of sleep. You’ve never sprinted after a barefoot escapee with one sock and a diaper leaking peanut butter
You don’t understand my chaos.
You don’t understand meltdown math.
You don’t understand what it means to be one blink away from losing your mind at a daycare gate.”
He’s gasping. Choking. Eyes wide.
And then…
I blink…
Back in my office.
I’m Calm. He is smiling.
We’re sitting. Having coffee. Talking work.
He’s talking budgets.
I’m nodding along, politely.
My soul is in a ditch somewhere.
But my face?
Corporate excellence.
Because that’s what I do.
That’s the blink.
One moment: folded gates, Batman chokeholds, collapsing in front of disabled children.
Next moment: spreadsheets, KPI discussions, and professional poise.
And that… is how I survive.