Mommy Forgot

IT IS NOT NEWS to anyone (except maybe a checked-out dad or two) that we moms have a lot of balls: the ones we’re juggling, the ones we’re dodging, the ones flying directly at our heads. (And then there are the big brass ones we bring out when someone raises our maternal hackles, but that’s a story for another post.) When you have that many balls, it’s inevitable that some will drop, and you just pray (or I do anyway) that the ones that go bouncing away will be the ones that matter the least.

And then, there are the other days.

Last Wednesday, I felt good. I’d done my homework for a class I’m taking, I’d written a first, very rough draft of an essay that’s due later in the month, I’d returned calls, opened the mail, and agreed to take on (yet another) responsibility at the kids’ school. I was on top of things. I even managed to remember to pack up my knitting so I’d have something to do while I waited for the Rock at her ballet class, and off I went to do the grocery shopping before picking the kids up at school.

I was midway through the market, planning a healthy, fast dinner for the family (locally-produced chicken sausages! kale and broccoli salad from the garden! celery root from the CSA!) when I realized.

Sure, I’d remembered dinner, and what I’d need to survive ballet, but…I forgot her tights, her leotard, her slippers. Oh, expletive deleted.

I was too far from home to return for the supplies and make it back to school on time. At her very traditional, old school ballet class, there was no way she was going to get to follow along in her school clothes. Just as I was paralyzed with horror at my realization, a friend tapped me on the shoulder. (This happens all the time when you live in a small town. People are always seeing you at your most vulnerable, whether it’s chasing the dog across the lawn in your bathrobe, or bent double in the food coop, pondering the horrible fate that awaits you in the carpool lane.)

Gina wanted to congratulate me on my so-called pie triumph, but I had no time for that. “You have a daughter!” I practically shrieked at her.

“Um, yes…” She clearly couldn’t tell where this was going.

“Where can I buy ballet stuff nearby? Is there anyplace?”

She suggested KMart, the only big box store in our area, and escaped her newly-insane friend as quickly as possible.

KMart had nothing, and my frantic calls to another friend (“Can the Rock borrow your daughter’s dance stuff? Just for an hour?”) went unanswered. I drove off to face the music.

The Rock ran to me. “Mommy! Is today ballet?” Her face was pure joy and sunshine. Ack.

“Mommy made a big mistake, sweetie.” I bent down to her level.

“What, Mama?”

Deep breath. The Rock is prone to tantrums of volcanic scale and destruction. They can sweep in due to the most minor (to me) misunderstanding, and have been know to last for hours. At least it feels like hours. And the one time I committed a similar offense with the River (I forgot his karate uniform) his storm raged for days. I was very, very afraid.

“Iforgottobringyourballetstuffsowecan’tgotoclasstoday. Can you think of something else fun to do during ballet time?”

“Why don’t we go home and get it?” She was all sensible practicality.

“Home is too far. We wouldn’t make it back to class in time.”

“Oh.” She was very, very quiet. She is not a quiet child.

“Can we go get a slice of pizza? I’m hungry.”

“Uh, sure.” I hesitated. “You’re not mad?”

“You made a mistake, Mama. It’s OK.”

Sometimes, even when you think you’re the worst parent in the world, the universe deigns to give you a smidgen of affirmation, that at least some of your juggling is paying off.

(Thanks to Anita of the Ballet Bible for the image of the forgotten slipper…)

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