Maybe it's just the lighting, or the buzz of conversation, or the flashing lights. I forgot my camera. I count at least 10 video cameras and probably 20+ flashes firing. My husband is not here. We've been practicing survival parenting again. Splitting up activities, dividing loyalties. The job only a parent can do, feel guilty about, and move on.
I don't fit in, in this "doting parents club." I remember being embarrassed that my mom wasn't a fun/young room-mother extrodinaire. She wasn't 100 pounds and all smiles, didn't talk in an elevated voice or call the kids "baby." She was awkward with the other moms, glad to go back to work and escape the pretense of perfection that elementary school mothers are so good at.
Wait. There he is. He is squinting, hand raised over his eyes, searching. I quickly smile and wave as I wipe away my tears of joy. Sometimes I forget that it's not about me anyway.Labels: Confessions of an Incompetent Parent |
posted by Reluctant Nomad at 
