Bad Mom

I forgot to take in my son's preschool registration this morning. It has only been on my mind for months. I had him all signed up in my mind.

But then there was the dazzling light this morning kicking off the snow. I was trying to photograph it through the glass sliding doors (foolish). Then I was rapt in an appreciation of the warm light being cast into the house through the high windows. I took pictures of the oblongs of light skimming just below the stairs. I took pictures of the shadows of my son's play kitchen utensils.

Then it was hurry, hurry, pack ourselves up warm for playgroup. There was the car-bound reverie of a mix cd my best friend from college had made for my son. I was overjoyed to hear some of our old favorites from then (Michelle Shocked, Bob Dylan's "Bear Mountain Picnic Massacre Blues") with his new ears. How wonderful to sing about making jam, having picnics, octopusses gardens (what do they look like?)

My son got obsessed in the afternoon with one of those pedantic Baby Einstein books that he discovered (purposefully) hidden at the bottom of a pile somewhere. I read it at least six times in a row. Baby Einstein, you're no Richard Scarry. I know Richard Scarry. You're no...

You can see how it went. From my obsessions to my son's. Then dinner dinner hurry (son said "crayon" and wanted that same thing, then when I agreed to get them he said "Coming! coming! coming! coming!" which is what I say when he's being impatient. I almost bust a gut).

Then husband home, son in bath, son's laundry downstairs, a momentary cuddle and conversation with the hubby who was trying to convince me to do something useful instead of hiding in the bedroom all night. (Mental sanity isn't useful?)

He got up to reheat some of the chinese. Then it hit me. Blam. All that, all that whole day of here and there and dally-dally-ho! and I missed this thing I have been obsessing about for weeks. The upset started to eat at me. My husband was understanding, "I'm sure there's still room for him if we take it in tomorrow."

Me: But you don't understand: He Must Go! He Must Go to That Preschool! I had it all planned out!

A quick check of the USPS web site confirmed that the last open post office in Madison was closing in six minutes on campus. No way in hell to get it postmarked in time. Worry and resignation and rationalization and internal whack-a-mommy kicked into high-gear.

Then my husband, God bless him, decided to take one for the team. He is, as I am writing this, somewhere halfway between Madison and Milwaukee heading towards the only post office in the state open until midnight to postmark our little man's preschool application.

It goes without saying that I love my husband. His ability to just DO things boggles my mind sometimes.

Bad mom cleaned up the kitchen, took out the garbaggio and made a long-delayed pan of rice krispy treats (and ate 1/4 of them before they cooled).

It occurred to me: Perhaps bake sales are simply mother guilt orgies. We fail. We goof. We bake. "Eating it" takes on a whole new meaning....