Rewind to October.
It was a hot day on South Beach. 10.10.10 to be exact. I remember, as we sat right across the street from the giant concrete calendar where people kept posing for photos in their cliché “I-was-in-Miami-sometimes-with-other-choice-words-underneath-that-made-me-laugh-even-though-I’m-not-supposed-to”…tees.
Jamin and I were enjoying our last day in Miami, soaking it up sans kids. And of course we were doing what any other self-admitted slightly snobbish/sane american with what one would consider the norm taste in fashion, would do that day…we were people watching. It was a beautiful, glorious, sunshine filled day… and there we sat, in a sea of transvestites, glitter and spandex, enjoying an early lunch. With a side of occasional thong revealing cellulite trotting by, of course.
I mean, what’s a good quesadilla without an eye full of sparkly jiggles?
But soon enough the haze of spandex and glitter had a thin film on top, as my viewing revelry was a little hindered. My mom had called. She was keeping the kiddos back in Sweet Home Alabama, (whom I felt bad enough for leaving already) and had reported that Malone was sporting a fever. I suspected an ear infection. So I kept escaping our side street cafe table, along with the unnecessary yet pounding club music, as I was patiently waiting to speak to the nurse to book him a Sunday morning appointment.
{thank goodness for those after hours options.}
I think everyone else is grateful for those Sunday morning appointments, too, as their line was busy for quite some time. When I got through, I was standing on the sidewalk, some distance away from Jamin and our table…and the ridiculously loud music. I’m pretty sure it didn’t help. It was still audible in the background.
Great…I thought to myself, trying my best to shield my mouthpiece. The nurse lady was totally going to think I’m some clubbing mom. On a sunday morning, nonetheless.
Sewin’ my wild oats in my 30’s suckas!
Let me further preface the following transcript with the fact that I was now officially on sensory overload with the sites, sounds, and SMELLS of south beach, Miami.
Nurse: {answering:} I don’t remember what they say. I’m sure it’s something official, like nurses line, or drs. office. Or you’ve dialed the number for screw up parents…what did you do this time? SOMETHING like that. They’re always nice. I just tend to ride the cash cow of guilt all the way to the bank when it pertains to my children. I’m good at that.
Me: “Hi, I needed to make an appointment for my son?”
Nurse: “Okay. What seems to be the problem?”
Me: “He’s had a fever for the last 24 hours.”
Nurse: “Is he experiencing any more symptoms?”
{remember: pounding music in the background because I’m a wild and crazy club hoppin’ mamasita}
Me: “I’m not sure. He has a runny nose…He’s just super fussy. He’s not with me. He’s with my mom. I’m in Miami, and I needed to make an appointment so she can bring him in” I was trying to communicate the idea that he needed to be seen, regardless, as I now needed to feel better. I seriously, at this point, fought the urge to completely over explain myself.
I’m good at that, too.
Cue: nurses thoughts of child neglect while I partay hard in the US of A.
Nurse: “Okay. When’s his birthday?”
Me: Cue: Crazy looking crowd of people walking by. I was ready with his name…and I’m TERRIBLE with numbers on command. “I’m sorry. His birthday?” I was drowning in sequins…possibly coated in STDs. Some of these people were frightening.
Nurse: “Yes. His birthday.”
Me: “Uh….it’s….”
AND YOU KNOW WHAT, PRECIOUS READERS??? I DREW A COMPLETE AND TOTAL BLANK.
For some reason, Malone’s birthday would not pop itself into my brain on command. Sure, I was kind of out of my bubble and off my game, but this was ridic. It was the pressure of it all. The only thing I could conjure was January (Emmy’s birthday month) with 2005 (Aiden’s birthday year.) and 16, (which is both of my other children’s birth DAYs.) SERIOUSLY??? WORK, BRAIN! I kind of wanted to ask her if she could cross reference those numbers with a chlid who was born nearly 15 months prior as a sibling, if she really wanted to look him up via numbers. I realize it’s easier for them…as there are probably a bazillion Aidens, Emersons, and Benjamins in their system. But I needed a life line. Can we get a conference call with my husband who is twelve steps away, who’s attention I cannot get at this very moment, so I can ask him our son’s birthday? Yes. Seriously people. Brain fartitis. It was that bad.
I wanted to smack myself in the face. What was wrong with me? If only I could explain my situation…if only she could see where I was…but there was simply no point…because the panic was building and I was rendered absolutely useless through my anxiety of the moment. Sometimes, I’m good at that, too.
Silence. Awkward, unending, nurse-possibly-wondering-what-the-heck-is-going-on-with-me… silence.
Me: Laughs. Uncomfortably. “I promise I know his birthday.” But it was now quite official that I was the deadbeat parent with the club muzack in the background, calling in to make my son’s appointment so my MOTHER could bring him in.
Silence.
Me: Willing myself to speak…to end this ridiculous torture, because I had officially given up. “Can I just give you his name?” I didn’t want to ask her for the name option. SHE was supposed to offer that one so I didn’t feel so STUPID.
I didn’t know I had to have a PASSCODE to get an appointment. Birthday shmirthdays. SHEESH. The very idea that I’m supposed to competently remember one of the most important days of my life. I’ve never felt more ridiculous. I’ve gotten the years mixed up before, because I’m simply bad with numbers…but this was just reals special of me. There are no words. I quickly gave the nurse his name (who still refused to laugh with me, make me feel better by admitting she’d done that before, or tell me I wasn’t a horrible person because I’m totally insecure at that moment and needed a total stranger’s consolation who I’d totally embarrassed myself in front of…my children have eaten my brain in servings of three. GIVE me a BREAK.) If I’d been fast enough, I should have hung up in her face, and called back later, pretending I was someone else. That’s what normal people do, right?
I think more than anything, I kind of just needed her to promise not to flag my chart, and call child services.
I was in tears, when I sat down again at the table. I’d left my children for the weekend…my child was sick…and I’d blanked out on command regarding his birthday. 7.13.09…MORON!!! Of course, it came to me as soon as my rear hit the chair.
So, I recovered from that small “event” where I almost died of embarrassment and the after affect of guilt.
Until…
Fast forward to last week. He had his 15 month check up. As it turns out, even though he was sick a few times around his 12 month, and had been in to see the doctor, and I had mistakenly thought he’d had his wellness check up…when he in fact, had not.
Do you know what that meant for him? My sweet, precious 15 month old son? SEVEN immunization shots.
I think I cried as hard as he did that day. I’ve never done that before…the only things that could console me? 1. praise the lord he won’t remember this (until he reads about it) and 2. at least I’m GETTING his immunizations???? Weak, I know.
Sometimes, it’s really hard being a mom. Whether I blank out and forget his birthday under the delicate combination of sensory overload and on command pressure…or his appointment with the consequences of a missed immunization session. Sometimes I want to curl up and die because it’s quite easy to be scatterbrained, while attempting to be a mother…wife…and run a small business all at once. Sometimes I really feel my children deserve better than me.
Sometimes…if I pull back that thin layer of protection to expose the raw flesh and nerves lying just beneath the surface… it’s not just the laundry that suffers.
Being a mom isn’t easy. But I think there will always be the looming guilt of it all. ONLY if we let it. And only if I decide NOT to get a secret tat on my wrist of my children’s birthdays so I may use it as a permanent cheat sheet.
Why am I telling you all of this? Because I think we’re all learning. I’ve been hitting the guilt a little hard lately. And while an outsider may view this as a confessional session for an overwhelmed mother…
Sometimes, I think we’re all a little too hard on ourselves, and it’s only natural to make mistakes as a parent. I’m not naive enough to think there will not be MANY more. We ALL do. Only I am in control of how I feel about the lessons learned from my own mistakes. Only I am in control of letting the guilt into my life. It can dominate me, ONLY if I let it.
I’m only human…doing the best I can. So I’m choosing to shake it off, and move on.
Guilt. It’s the hottest accessory this fall.
Will you be wearing it this season?
Because I’m totally over it.
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