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.
Minutes pass. The zipper remains unmoved. Their frustration rises. Tears are forming. The clock is ticking. You can feel your soul leaving your body.
And then you break. You take over.
And now you are the enemy.
The wailing is instant. Full-body devastation. How dare you? How dare you rob them of their independence, their moment of triumph? They collapse to the floor, inconsolable. You try to reason with them, but your words mean nothing. The betrayal is too deep.
And I have found a new ally.
Oh, what’s that? You’re trying to get me unstuck by yanking and muttering “We don’t have time for this” through clenched teeth?
I feed off your frustration.
Your child is now sobbing. You almost got me free, but oh wait—now I’m even more tangled than before.
You try to decide whether to force me down and start over, or just shove your child out the door half-zipped, half-feral, fully betrayed by the gods of outerwear.
Or you could just give up and grab another jacket. But the only other option is that puffy coat they hate. Do you really want to start another war?
So we continue. You. Me. Your increasingly impatient child. The clock is ticking closer to doom.
You will lose this battle. You will be late. And you will, at some point, scream into the void, “Why won’t this piece of shit zip!”
And then?
Then I will be victorious.