scribblechic

It began as an uncomfortable uncertainty, a nagging sensation that something unnamed was amiss. Looking over my daughter’s assignment notebook this evening I sifted through worries, wondering if her teacher shared my concerns. Like light flooding dark corners, I immediately suspected what I previously could not recall; I had missed my daughter’s parent-teacher conference.

Panicked I searched my phone for reassurance, grateful when nothing appeared on the day’s agenda. Hurriedly, desperate to prove my instincts wrong, I rounded the corner toward my paper calendar and noted my scrawling script firmly affirming my error and mocking my mistake. I had forgotten something previously unforgettable.

I spit my error into words like a bitter confession, dripping self-depreciating humor. My husband registered disbelief, but my daughter’s disappointment framed my failure in a painful silhouette of silence; holding me tightly to discomfort. In that moment I wanted to build a wall of excuses, stacked neatly with logic to explain away my mistake.

It would have been easy to conjure an acceptable excuse that I might find a convenient thread of dismissal from accountability. Instead I considered my children’s colorful errors in judgment and my lofty expectation of genuine remorse and honest admissions of error. I drafted an uncluttered apology to my daughter’s teacher and then settled into a separate apology to my daughter.

Here, where my children know I hold memories safe, I am pushing aside the urge to label myself unkindly for sympathy or to wallow self-righteously for reassurance. I am determined to wear my mistake among my words; holding this day alongside more accomplished moments of motherhood to better remember the sense of humility that accompanies recognition of fallibility. Modeling honesty and remorse as I endeavor to teach compassion and forgiveness rather than hiding my errors behind excuses.

To my daughter, Tonight I wanted to circle the minute hand back to a moment I might have done better; to claim the fragment of an hour designated to align those responsible for your education in attendance and attention. In loosing sight of this commitment I suggested you and your teacher were forgettable, your time and importance negotiable. You are more important than my error, your education greater than this mistake. I’m sorry. Love, Mom

Recently the contents of our garage had been tucked inside an unused room of our home as my husband settled the once cluttered storage space into a long anticipated workspace.  Walls tidied and tools settled, we then collectively began the process of marching miscellaneous items from the temporary corner of our home into their designated nooks of our garage. From here to there we uncovered old favorites; long forgotten toys and seasonal treasures in want of rediscovery.

Last night, as my daughter elaborately procrastinated each exercise in preparing for bedtime, she came to me baring a forgotten fall storybook extracted en route to storage. Strewn across my bed on our bellies, feet swinging in time to the predictable rhythm of the picture book prose we laughed at familiar memories and delighted in new discoveries. I marveled at the little girl who has worked so diligently as a struggling reader to find the words that so long eluded her, now leading me into forgotten memories among the written words of an old favorite.