I hope my son doesn’t remember.
I hope he can’t recall everything I say and do.
I’d rather his memories of me standing in front of the mirror plucking my gray hairs and applying face masks be fuzzy.
Just as I’d rather he completely block out the time I yelled at him so loudly my entire body shook,
beat myself up about not working out or accomplishing more on my “To Do” list,
ran out of patience, not to mention creative ideas because he wouldn’t go to bed and I hid out in the bathroom for several minutes before I regained composure,
would go days without make-up or washing my hair,
wept for people he’ll never know and those we both have yet to meet.
called a friend an unkind word under my breath,
banged my fists on the steering wheel in anguish,
sighed heavily at unmet expectations that were set entirely too high to begin with,
slammed a door in frustration,
cried as I told his dad I didn’t think I was cut out for this motherhood thing,
threw my phone across the room in a blind rage.
The list of my not so finer moments goes on and on. I’m sure you have one of your own; things you wish you could change, protect your child from, moments you would do over if it were possible.
We are parents.
We are human.
We make mistakes.
I make mistakes.
Tons of them.
I hope my son only remembers the good stuff.
And if not, I hope he can forgive my flaws and indiscretions.