Lugging around some measure of guilt is a parental privilege. Lately, the shortcoming that gnaws at me at the end of each day is not about what I have or have not done, but about what I have not captured in print or photos.
The Jewish holiday of Purim just passed. This made-for-Disney storyline includes a royal controversy, a nationwide beauty pageant, romance, luck, war and triumph of “good” over “evil.”
As I read the story, I am struck by a parenthetical portion of the tale. After a particularly upsetting day, King Achashverosh noted as the King of Persia, was tossing and turning in bed. He asked for his Book of Chronicles – I envision monstrous leather bound tome, King’s seal imprinted on the front cover, and soft parchment pages filled with black ink. I see the king in his royal pjs, reclining in bed, pouring over his recent happenings, thoughts and personal impressions captured by quill by his staff. How incredible!
In 2001 when my first child was born, iVillage offered a free platform –much like today’s blogger interfaces. Mine was a private “Mommy blog”, password protected and intended to be seen only by me. It was simply a way to chronicle the first rolls, first teeth, giggles and other little moments and milestones that parents are “supposed” to chronicle. I have a poor memory for details and even I can’t read my own handwriting… So what better place to keep track, but online?
Yet one day, a year later, iVillage had technical glitch and “poof” – my “memories” vanished into thin air. Not only memories, but first-time sappy Mommy poetry, doctor’s appointment records and early photos. I tried all sort of technical maneuvers unsuccessfully (Google Desktop – my very own computer Messiah- had not yet been born) and consoled myself with the very reality that I had indeed lived the moments, enjoyed them at the time and that was sufficient. [Read more...]
It was about this time last year. E had gone into the hospital for stomach surgery. A bowel obstruction. A few months later we stood by her grave, hurting as her three-year-old yelled the impossible questions above our sniffles, “Why they putting my Mamma down there? Is Mamma in that box? Mamma? ”
It was Six’s birthday (which means I’ll have to call him Seven hereinafter). And with all of the tree nut, peanut, dairy, gluten and soy allergies, it seems the only thing a parent may send to school is pure cane sugar with some hydrogenated oil and red dye Number whatever.
Mommy guilt has many sources. Dinner reigns high for many.
