It's not so bad taking care of a sick kid, vomit on the sofa aside. $400 for an emergency enzyme wash at 8:00 p.m. was the remedy, if you're curious. The couch still stinks, if you ask me. Of course I have been coveting a settee from Trianon for a few years now, so my olfactory perception may be tainted by an ulterior motive. Anyway. It's a rare thing for my gal to stay still for any reasonable length of time, a trait she no doubt inherited from me, so the past couple of days were a welcome break for us both. And Mulan really is one heck of a movie (insipid Disney soundtrack aside.) In between Mulan and Mulan 2 there was time to whip up a few holiday cards. Stella sat quietly at my side, transfixed by the thrum of the sewing machine. I don't know if Stella will remember that half hour when she's older, but I think I will.
Despite five years experience there are moments when I feel like a mom-imposter. I can't really explain it, but maybe you know what I mean. I don't mean a going-through-the-motions ennui (though there is that too on occasion.) It's more feeling like I've overstated my qualifications and somehow landed this job of mother of two and now what the hell am I supposed to do? It's the weight of responsibility. I heard that as adults we tend to recall our childhood in absolutes: it was either fantastic, wonderful, amazing or it was complete torture. I feel that way about Christmas. I have a tendency to get stress-y about Christmas because my own memories are, fortunately, fantastic, wonderful and amazing. Snow-dusted. Happy. Loud. And of course I want nothing less than the same for my kids. Yet the more time I spend at this parenting gig, the more I've begun to realize that the times that bring me the most happiness are when I'm not concerned with creating a perfect memory, and I just enjoy the moment - whatever it is.
