She Loves Me, I Love Me Not

This “Author’s Breakfast” for my daughter’s second grade class -- I did not want to attend. I am totally, almost politically against these end-of-school year things. I find them to be unnecessary, inelegant and generally a great waste of time – not to mention, a waste of donuts, mini-muffins, and gallons of coffee, that even I, an addict, could not drink all of if I tried. Plus, I have three kids, for whom I must rally the same oohs and ahhs, for which I must "be there" for, for which I must celebrate every little scribble made or song sung, and frankly, I'm tired and so I get a little pissy about it. They're good kids, I know; thanks so much for loving them, and teaching them, but you know, after all, guh'bye.

When I walked in, with K, the newly potty-trained gigantic three year old, I said this to a neighbor/friend, “Yeah, hey, hi; let’s get this fucking shit over with.”

Did I really say that? I did. But even as the words spilled from my mouth, I regretted them. I am sorry for being such a bad-ass all the time. I am sorry for trying to be so cool, cooler than you, even here in some second grade class, my daughter's, this girl who is so unlike me, and who I adore beyond words that the books have for adoration.

I wish I didn't see myself as the rock chick with black nail polish all the time anymore. I wish I could see myself more the way they see me, the way she sees me: a do-er, a mom of three, a hugger, a boo-boo fixer, a PTO mom who attends these things, even plans these things. That's who I am now; I became this for her. Graciously, gratefully I should add.

My daughter’s poem, the second-to-last of the performers, almost made me drop to my knees. It was copied from the format of a book they read, so not totally original, but yikes, I wasn’t the only one crying:

I love
I love a lot of things, a whole lot of things
Like
My Mom
She is very funny, smart and nice
I love when my mom helps me with my problems
She loves me and I love her
Honey, let me tell you that I LOVE my mom…
I love my Mom

It went on from there, but does it matter? The bill was paid. I was done. It was guilt beyond the guilt that regular people know. Only mothers know this -- that joy/pain part of parenting -- that Guilt.

Someday, maybe tomorrow, I will write back a poem to her. Hell, maybe I already have.