You thought this morning was going well, didn’t you? You even got your kid to put on their shoes without a ten-minute existential crisis about sock seams. You were this close to making it out the door unscathed.
But you forgot one thing.
Me.
I am the zipper on this slightly-too-small, definitely-too-worn hand-me-down jacket, and I am your reckoning.
You try to pull me up—oh, silly, silly parents. I jam immediately. You yank harder—I resist. I am the fortress of defiance. You try to wiggle the teeth free. I laugh in your face.
And now? Now we play.
Your child is whining and squirming. Their patience? Nonexistent. And yet, I remain. Stuck. Permanent. A monument to your failure.
But wait, there is a new phase in this game.
They want to do it themselves. Their tiny hands grip me, their fingers fumbling and pulling in the least effective way possible. They are yanking side to side, tugging at an angle that defies both physics and reason. You gently try to guide them. They shriek in betrayal. This is your job, and you have gravely underestimated their zipping expertise.
