Surely it is a device made simply to torment.

It was cold out, the gusting wind harsh against my exposed face. Mother had told me to wear my hat and scarf so as to conceal my skin from the frigid December air, yet I refused. Stubborn as a mule, they always claimed—whatever that meant. She eventually surrendered the argument after several high-pitched, defiant squeals, and requested I exit the vehicle before I be late to my kindergarten courses.

The seat belt was quite tricky that day, the metal clip somehow lodged deep within the plastic case. I stumbled over the button, pushing and pulling on its container to no avail.

“You need to press the red part, honey,” Mother explained, as if I were some ignorant buffoon.

“Shut up,” I retorted, still agitated by our previous debate. I continued twisting and pulling at the seatbelt, my tiny fingers grasping at every inch it offered. The tool mystified me, its inner-workings surely the result of a higher, mischievous being bent on trapping those like myself.

“The button,” she repeated, reaching toward me. I slapped her hand away—I would not be made a fool of this day. This beast was mine to conquer, and mine alone.

My hands continued flailing blindly about the seatbelt, squeezing the hard, beige exterior in the hopes for sweet release. I remained trapped, chained to the seat like a dog in disgrace. I leaned my head back and howled—if mother wanted a canine, she would get a canine.

“Honey, please, you’re going to be late,” she said, reaching past my arm.

“Mom! Stop,” I pleaded, “I can do this! Mom! Stop! Mom! Mom! Mom! Stop! Mom! Mom!” My arguments fell on deaf ears, her hands now calmly resting upon the seatbelt. I pulled with all my might, forcing my body back into the seat behind me in a final attempt at escape. The air shattered with the undignified click of the seatbelt, followed by the hum of cloth as the belt slipped back behind me.

“Mom! I told you I could do it, you butthead!” I said. I was irate, a furious remnant of my former self. Even still, I knew that I had no excuse for such severe language, no matter how deserved it may be.

“Don’t call me names, honey. Now, please, you’re going to be late.” Mother reached over and pushed open the passenger door of our forest green Dodge Caravan. I rolled my eyes, the world momentarily becoming a swirled blur. I had been disgraced, my self-reliance made into a joke; however, the day would not end in sheer defeat. I would stand, rise like a phoenix from the flame, and go forth by my own fruition.

“Bye ma!” I said, sliding out the open door and landing on the cold, black asphalt without aid. My Ninja Turtle backpack glistened under the winter sun; the cool air slipped gently through my pants, the diaper that had been there yesterday now proudly replaced by my mature, adult Power Rangers-themed undergarments.

I slowly began my way toward the school, mind fraught with hope as I prepared to not only use the potty, but to do so by my own accord.

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Writing Prompt: You are a cocky, self-centered, emotionally ill-equipped 8 year old dealing with a problem in 2nd grade, BUT you have an inner dialog of a 35 year old writer