In the van on the way home from picking up my eight-year old from after school care, she asked me if I’d remembered to check on an extracurricular activity she’d been
hounding asking me about. “Umm. No, I forgot,” I admitted.
“Well, what about checking with Emmy’s mom for that play date?”
“Sorry, hun. I’ll do it soon. I promise.” Geez. I can’t believe I forgot again! I wonder what I should fix for dinner. I’ve got to wash those pants for tomorrow and remember to finish that summary I was working on at the office. Pick up the prescriptions at the pharmacy later and pay that bill online.
This was followed by some whining and a big sigh from the back seat.
“I’m sorry. I’m a lousy mom,” I joked. I figured she’d come to my rescue and stick up for me, saying, unequivocally, that no, I wasn’t a bad mom, just a busy mom.
She says, without missing a beat: “I know. I’m just glad you’re able recognize that about yourself.”
My damaged self-image was only half resurrected by the fact that shortly following this statement, she busted out laughing. Which made me realize that: a) I’ve really got to watch myself lest my unintentional broken promises wind up the source of some future therapy sessions for her and a heaping load of parental guilt on my part; and b) she’s got her own little quirky sense of humor emerging.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some errands to run. And some laundry to do. And I must remember to email about that play date. And the violin lessons. And then thaw out the chicken. And…