"Okay, let's get going. Get your shoes on. Get your coats on," I said urgently as I burst into the living room, where my two boys were playing with some toy knights. They slowly started to get up from the floor. I'd just noticed the time and realized we were going to be late for an art class 45 minutes away. "C'mon, c'mon," I said a bit louder, irritated with myself for having lost track of time. Gus, 7, started to say something, but I cut him off. "Just get your shoes on. NOW," I shouted.

"What's happening?" Gus asked in a panic.

"We're going to be late for art class. Now let's go," I said brusquely as I picked up my purse and led them out the door. When we were pulling out of the driveway, Gus spoke up from the backseat. "Mommy, don't do that again," he said.

"Do what?" I answered, buckling my seat belt and calculating how late we were actually going to be.

"Don't come in and start yelling like that. I thought the house was on fire. That wasn't very nice, you know."

I stopped the car, the wisdom of a 7-year-old hitting me. It was only an art class. That sinking feeling I know so well as a mother  -- guilt  -- seeped through my body. "You're absolutely right," I said, turning to the backseat and putting my hand on Gus's knee, hoping the incident wouldn't be fodder for too many adult therapy sessions. "I shouldn't have yelled like that. I'm sorry." As we drove to the art class  -- more slowly now  -- we talked about how I could have handled the situation better.

Parenting contributing editor Jeannie Ralston writes from her family's lavender farm in Blanco, Texas.

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