Thursday, January 29, 2015

just try your best, mama

i worry, probably more than a healthy amount, that i may be ruining my children's lives. from the petty stuff, like not choosing the right cup or pair of socks, to the legit stuff like deciding when to send them to kindergarten, practically poisoning them with my cooking, stashing them at preschool for nine hours a day five days a week, or shutting myself in the bathroom because i don't have the emotional wherewithal to withstand yet another meltdown. but then i try to console myself and say, "they're 2 (almost 3!) and 4. they're not even going to remember any of this. it's not like i'm causing long-term psychological damage. they'll be fine."

well. my son recently brought this hypothesis into question. the other night i was driving with the kids in the car and we were running late to pick up the dog from doggy daycare. jack was lamenting from the back seat, "i feel so bad for Feta. she is pwobly so SAD dare all by hersewf." dear lord. i responded that yes, it was sad, but she would probably survive and we would just have to give her lots of extra love when we got home. 

then he says, "wemembow dat time when i was the vewy last one to get picked up in my fwee-year-old cwass? i was vewy, vewy sad." (you might remember this from my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, which, by the way, was six months ago.) he went on, "i was just sitting dare all by myself eating a cheese stick dat wasn't even cold anymore because i was so hungwy, and i almost cwied." oh sweet jesus. stab me in the heart. bring me a hair shirt. and some bleach for my motherly conscience which may very well never be clean again. 

i told him i was still so, so, so sorry that happened, and that i will try really, really hard to make sure that doesn't ever happen again, but sadly, there's a chance it might. jack said, "you just need to make sure you get there a wittow earlier, dat's all, mama." i said i will do my best, but things don't always go as planned, life happens, blah blah blah. he sagely replied "well, it's okay if you are late, maybeee... free or four more times until i'm twenty." i said alright. then he added "you just need to twy a wittow harder, okay?" me, trying not to laugh/cry/drive off the road, "okay bud. i will." jack: "just twy your best, 'kay mama? dat's all i can ask you to do." thanks, son. i'll do that. i promise. 

* Just don't be late again.
Ever. ;)
ps. on the subject of mom guilt and comparisons and so on and so forth - julie, one of my most favorite imaginary friends, is challenging people to make a "mommitment" to end mom wars. amen, sister. in the wise words of my four-year-old (who was possibly plagiarizing pete-the-cat), we're all doing our best, and that's all we can ask - of ourselves, and one-another.

pps. people keep asking me what a hair shirt is. click here to find out.


  1. Oh, all the feels! Your son is so adorable and wise. There were times I was late picking up my sons when they were small (now 13 and almost 11) and even when they said it was okay, it wasn't okay, I felt so AWFUL.

    Do your best, Mama. Love your kids. It's enough, I promise.

    1. Aww, thanks Starr! I know, my mom was late to pick us up ALL the time and we all turned out (mostly) fine, but that doesn't make me feel any better when I do it to my own kids!!!