I'M SORRY I MISSED YOUR SOFTBALL GAME

Photo by Jordan Whitt on Unsplash

I know. You looked for me. I said I’d be there. I wasn’t. Not my proudest mothering moment. The thing is, I got home from work and the dog had shit all over the sunroom. Like, all over. And, because the floors are made from crushed rock, it wasn’t your average bleach-and-wipe situation. I had to employ a toothbrush. I won’t go into details; but, let me just say, I used an entire roll of jumbo-size paper towels — the good kind—and remnants of the horror remain.

I know you’re mad. You’re 13, and even without me missing your game, it’s easy (and normal) for you to find fault in me. I am your mother—a living, breathing example of just one of the many ways your life can go off-track. But I want you to know, you are not me. You are so much smarter than I was at your age. You are so much more capable. I’d like to think I had something to do with that; but honestly, you were born capable.

My own mother saved every one of my baby teeth in a black film container on her nightstand. I am worried I should have done this with your teeth. I’m sorry. I don’t know where I put your baby teeth. I did love them. I‘ve loved and love every part of you.

Also, about the eggs. You are right. I shouldn’t be giving dogs raw eggs when we run out of dog food. I should make a grocery list and go to the store. It’s just that… I…am…so…tired. It’s not the 50+ hours I work each week, or the two-hour daily commute, as much as it is the constant worry. Last week I thought I had mouth cancer. (Google tells me it’s just a canker sore.) Today, I’m worried that the man I hired to take away the cinder blocks in our front yard could be a serial killer. Every day, I worry that I’ll lose my job and we’ll end up living in your grandparents’ basement.

But never you. I don’t worry about you or who you will become. Only that you can never truly know how much I love you.