I’m waiting for my story to be complete. Then I can finish writing my memoir.

But last night I freaked our during my daughter’s excessively long homework time. Which is long because of her slow processing speed. And it’s soaked with her tears because she’s sensitive and I’m a monster.

Although I’m not a monster: in the memoir I evolve and learn how to be patient.

I mean I’m not patient. I’m stubborn.

I interview a special education expert who runs a famous inclusive preschool in my city. She says it’s a misconception that the people who work in her field are patient. They’re stubborn, changing the trajectories of their student’s educational experiences.

Stubborn: can I call myself that when I lose my cool with my daughter because she’s not able to quickly study for her weekly scientist quiz?

I’m tenacious and willing to apologize, that’s who I am.

I’m waiting for my story to be complete. Then I can finish writing my memoir.

But still and yet. I repeat my story: do homework with my daughter, lose my cool during hour 2, apologize, hold her, get to calm and help her again. Add in fun. Don’t always lose my cool. Hire an older student to help her with homework so I can have more fun with her and less stress.

Are you bored with this story yet? Tired of my frustration? Did you find illumination in the idea that patience isn’t the magical necessity for helping your kid who has learning issues?

I’m waiting for my story to be complete. Then I can finish writing my memoir.

I try to read my memoir, the one I wrote while I cried myself through my daughter’s hardest years. The years I spent sleeping with her more often than not because anxiety likes to attach itself to learning issues. I cannot read the memoir.

Can I write the story that has no ending? Can I place a bow on myself, call myself evolved if I really live on repeat: do homework, lose cool, apologize, find good energy, finish homework, have intentional fun with kid who works way too hard at school.

Our stories are never complete. I read memoirs because I am searching for words that I can repeat on the days when tears spill out of me like a spring waterfall that empties out our melting glaciers.

Endings are illusions. I don’t know how to finish my memoir. I keep playing with it because I am living this story. Each time I edit a page, I know a bit more about myself. I write my way into being a better parent for my girl. It’s the least I can do in a world that asks me to be patient and stubborn.

It’s a story I’ll never stop writing.