It’s Only The Second Day of the Year and I Already Get the Award. . .

. . . Mother of the Year, that is.

Yep, go ahead and drop all those big plans to take the prize. . . it’s coming straight to me. 

Why you ask?  Well, let me just tell you.

Just this morning (well, yesterday, really) I walked upstairs after running on the treadmill.  It was just before 7 a.m. and I grabbed my phone to make sure I didn’t miss any important news over the previous hour.  (A lot happens during those hours.)  When I glanced down at my cell phone I saw that I had seven missed calls from Chad.

My heart dropped as I was sure of one of two things. . . 1. There was an emergency  or 2.  he won the lottery.  Since he doesn’t play the lottery, I suspected something must be wrong.  Chad hasn’t called me 7 times in a row ever.  Like, never, ever.  Not even when he’s at the grocery and he is unsure if the “sugar” on the list is “brown” or “powdered” or “regular”. 

I pressed the “1” on my favorites and Chad answered. . .

Hello, he said.
I did a mental calculation.  He didn’t sound hurt or overly frantic.  (Though I’ve never known Chad to be overly frantic.  Like never, ever.)
What’s up? I asked.
Charlie has school today, he told me.
Shut up, I answered back. I thought he was joking.
No, I saw a bus, he has school today, he explained. (In a calm voice, surly to prevent my own freak out.)

His calm voice did little to help me.  While he was still on the phone I was marching up the stairs to wake up our very unsuspecting little guy who had no idea that he was supposed to go to school this morning.  You see, we’ve been counting down.  Soaking up every moment of schedule-less freedom.  Drinking in lazy morning movies, relishing in crazy afternoon balloon volleyball tournaments, and enjoying late night sleepovers in each others rooms.  The night before we said it. . . four more days until school starts. 

Ugh.  How was I going to tell him?  Charlie, I said while rubbing his back, you have school today.  I’m so sorry we didn’t know you have school today.

He looked at me with the most pained look I’ve ever seen, What??  I thought we had two whole weeks off? And then the tears came.  Sad, sobbing, tears.  Confused, heartbroken tears. 

Is that Charlie?, Chad asked in a shocked voice.  Charlie is prone to dramatics, but this was different.  This was real, genuine, confused, and sad tears. . . Chad could hear that through the phone.

I did everything I could to hold back my own tears while cursing myself under my breath. . . seriously, Summer, can’t you do anything right?  How hard is it to look at the calender and notice what day school starts. . .

(My internal dialogue went further, but I like to keep this space clean and G-rated.) 

Oh Friends, it’s one thing to see your children hurt. . . it’s another to know you are the cause of it.  (Need we visit the preschool graduation again?). 

But in all reality, we recovered.  Charlie perked up, I forgave myself, and Chad walked through the door and said, this will be a great blog post.
Apparently he knew that one of the first places I would run is here, to this space, to confess my sins and acknowledge my inadequacies.   He was right, here I am.

I recently read these words by writer May Sarton, One must believe that private dilemmas are, if deeply examined, universal, and so if expressed, have a human value beyond the private, and one must also believe in the vehicle for expressing them, in the talent. 

Something in her words reached deep inside me and resonated with my soul.  It gave words to what I have felt.  Somehow, she said perfectly, exactly what I feel. . . she described succinctly why it is that I come here.  Why I write. . . why I confess. . .

. . . I do it because I think there is value to it.  Value to saying I’m not perfect.  I make mistakes.  I mess up.  I hurt.  I struggle.  I do and say the wrong things.  Sometimes life is messy.  Sometimes I’m messy.  But in the end. . . it’s okay.  Because really, aren’t we all messy?

Where am I going with all of this?  I don’t know.  Maybe it’s purely a selfish act of repentance to get if off my chest to publish another one of my big mistakes.  Or my grief.  Or my burnt Tupperware.  But I think it’s more than that.  I need to bear my humanity so one day Charlie, Chanelle and Meadow will embrace theirs. 

When Charlie walked down the stairs after a quick shower and dressing session I told him this: Charlie, you’re 8 years old, I think it’s time you know. . . I’m not perfect.  He laughed at me and smiled and said, yes you are, the school is dumb. 
And there you have it. . . the graciousness of children.  I’m in the process of learning to have the same graciousness with myself.  When I really think about it, I suspect that our little ones will be far more impacted by the things we did right. . . than the things we did wrong.  In fact, I’d pit one against the other any day. . .

Unexpected school days or moments of togetherness. . .

Knowing they have perfect parents or knowing they have parents that love them. . .

I’m pretty sure that in the end, few things will matter more than our presence. . .