When Knowing Isn’t Enough: Why Didn’t I Do Better?

Last week, we explored the idea that capacity is the nervous system’s ability to access the physical, emotional, cognitive, and relational resources we already have. If you missed that article, you can read it here.

This week, I thought we could revisit the story from Connection Before Correction. You might remember that the mother in the story responded intentionally to her child. Rather than focusing only on getting the pants on and getting out the door, she slowed down long enough to notice what was happening beneath her child’s behaviour. She repaired the impact of her earlier response, reconnected with her child, and waited until her child’s nervous system could receive what she was asking for. The limit didn’t disappear. Her child still needed to get dressed, and they still needed to leave. But connection made it possible for the child to do what was being asked.

Looking through a different lens, though, what if the most important part of that story was not what the mother did? What if the most important part was what she was able to access in that moment?

That morning, many things were already demanding her attention. She was tired. Her husband was working the night shift. Her mother was sick. She had an important presentation at work, a last-minute change awaiting her attention, and a child struggling with a morning that felt different from the usual. She felt the pressure of the clock, too. Yet somehow, she was still able to notice more than the urgency directly in front of her. She could notice herself. She could notice her child. She could remember what she knew about behaviour, regulation and connection. She became curious about what her child might need. She could hold the demands of the morning while also seeing the child sitting in front of her.

Those resources were available to her in that moment. But what if that same morning had unfolded when they weren’t as accessible? What if nothing about her love for her child, her parenting knowledge, her intentions, or even the morning’s circumstances changed, but her capacity did? Would the outcome have been the same?

Let’s look through that lens now.

Everything about the morning is the same up to this point. Mom is standing in the bathroom, curling her hair, when she hears the soft thud of her child’s body hitting the bedroom floor. This time, the sound registers as just one more thing she needs to deal with.

Almost at the same moment, the snooze alarm on her phone begins to echo through the bathroom. She reaches over to silence it and checks the time. She has three more seven-minute snooze cycles before they need to walk out the door if she is going to get to work with enough time to make the remaining changes to her presentation.

Twenty-one minutes.

She knows from experience that it will take at least two of those snooze cycles to make breakfast and eat with her child. They are running out of time. She thinks, “Why today? Of all days for them to pull this, why today? I don’t have time for this today. I am never going to get to work on time.” One thought quickly leads to another. If they don’t leave on time, she will be late. If she is late, she won’t have enough time to finish the changes. If she doesn’t finish the changes, she won’t be prepared for the presentation she has spent the last month working on. In less than a minute, her mind has travelled through the next three snooze cycles and all the way to the presentation and the stress she has felt for the past month.

About ninety seconds after hearing the thud, she sets the curling iron on the counter and walks down the hall. Her child is sitting in a heap on the bedroom floor, face down in the pants. “What are you doing?” The words come out more frustrated and sharper than she intends.

In that moment, Mom is in her head and on autopilot. She sees the pants. She sees the clock. She sees how late they are going to be. What she cannot see right now is everything she saw in the other version of this morning. She cannot access the reasoning that would remind her that her child slept poorly. She does not think about how different the morning feels without Dad. She does not wonder whether the seam in the pants is really unbearable against a tired little body. She does not recognize the soft thud as information about what is happening inside her child. She knows all of those things. But right now, on autopilot, she cannot reach them.

Her child looks up from the floor and says, “Too scratchy, I no want these pants.” Mom hears the whine in their voice, but she cannot hear what is underneath it. Instead, it sounds like one more delay in a morning that already does not have enough time. “We do not have time to argue about pants today. You need to put them on so we can go.” Her child pushes the pants away and says louder, “No! I no want them!”

Mom feels frustration rising in her body. She looks at the pants on the floor, then at her child, and thinks about everything she still needs to do. “Why are you making this so difficult? They are just pants. You wear them all the time.” Her child begins to cry and says again, “Scratchy.” Mom hears the words, but they do not land the way they might on another morning. “They’re not scratchy. You wore them last week, and they were fine. Come on. We need to get dressed.” Her child cries harder and pulls their knees to their chest. The louder the child becomes, the more pressure Mom feels. The more pressure Mom feels, the firmer and faster her words become. Neither of them is trying to make the morning harder for the other, but that is what is happening. Mom reaches for the pants and tries to help put them on. Her child kicks their legs away and yells, “No!” Mom stops and says, “Enough. I am not doing this today.” She needs to move the morning along. “What pants do you want?” she asks, louder than she intends.

Her phone alarm sounds again from the bathroom, signalling that another seven minutes are gone.

Fourteen minutes.

Mom closes her eyes for a second. Her heart beats faster. Breakfast still needs to be made. She is not fully dressed. Her presentation is waiting. Her child is still sitting on the floor, pantsless. She walks to the dresser, pulls out another pair, and places them beside her child. “Fine. Wear these. I need you dressed. Now.”

She returns to the bathroom, then to her bedroom, to finish her morning routine. When she comes back a few minutes later, her child has managed to put on the other pair of pants but is still softly crying. Mom notices the tears, but the next alarm is approaching, and breakfast still needs to be made. “Okay, good. Come on. We need to eat.”

Breakfast is rushed. There is no time to sit together as they usually do. Mom makes toast while gathering the last few things she needs for work. Her child takes a few bites but says they are not hungry. Mom checks the clock. “You need to eat something. We do not have time for this.” Eventually, she wraps the toast in a paper towel, puts it in the child’s bag, and gets them both out the door.

The drive to daycare is quieter than usual. Her child looks out the window. Mom notices the silence but has no time to wonder about it. Instead, she calculates how long the drive will take, whether traffic will be heavy, and how quickly she can get from daycare to work. When they arrive, her child does not want to let go. “Come on, honey. Mommy has to go to work.” The child wraps their arms more tightly around her leg. Mom looks toward the door, then at the time on her phone. Another wave of frustration moves through her. “Please. I just need one thing to be easy this morning.” A staff member comes over and gently takes her child’s hand. Mom gives them a quick kiss, says, “I love you. I’ll see you after work,” and walks toward the door as her child begins to cry. She hears the crying as the door closes behind her.

For the first few minutes of the drive, she is still thinking about time. She watches the dashboard clock and calculates how many minutes she has lost. In her mind, she is already reorganizing the rest of the morning, deciding what needs to happen first, what can wait, and what she will say if her manager is already there when she arrives.

Then she stops at a red light. For the first time all morning, there is nothing she can do to make things move faster. With this in mind, she sits there, hands on the steering wheel, and the morning begins to replay differently. She remembers her child saying the pants hurt. She remembers how poorly they slept. She remembers that Dad was not there this morning. She remembers the small body curled up on the bedroom floor. Then she remembers the words that came out of her own mouth, “Why are you making this so difficult?” Her chest tightens.

She knew her child was tired. She knew the morning routine was different without Daddy there. She knew that behaviour often reveals what is happening beneath the surface. She knew that getting louder usually does not help a child who is already struggling. She knew all of it. So why, when she needed that knowledge most, could she not find it? She looks at the red light ahead of her and thinks, “I know better than that. Why didn’t I do better?”