I was writing, and I forgot to meet them at the bus stop after school.
Just straight up forgot.
I felt almost as bad a mother as the bus driver knew I was.
(I had to meet him at the end of his route. You haven’t known shame until you pick up your kids at a gas station only moments before their bus driver is forced to call Child Services.)
(Really. That’s the policy. It’s a an over-reactive, stupid policy but OF COURSE I would say that.)
I apologized profusely to my kids. I didn’t BS them. I admitted that I was writing and I just plain forgot them.
The nine year old said, “You mean you forgot you HAD kids? Or you just forgot about the bus?”
I said, “I could never forget I had kids. I just lost track of time and forgot to come get you until five minutes afterwards. I’m really sorry, baby.
She said, “That’s okay. You just forgot. It was only one time. I knew you’d come so I wasn’t worried.”
The six year old said, “It was awesome! I got to see everyone’s bus stops!”
So, Mother’s Day.
You don’t have to be a saint, you know. Motherhood isn’t romantic. Being a mother is a constant state of ferocity and failure .
Ferocity: I OFTEN have a deep and primal urge to actually do harm, even to other defenseless children, in defense of my children.
Failure: I forgot to pick my children up! My children, whom I would kill other kids for! I forgot to pick them up!
Saints couldn’t handle this gig.