kool-aid anyone?

when i was four-years-old, my best friend was a little red-haired girl named susannah.  she had narrow feet and chronic kidney infections and an older brother.  i was covetous of susannah's life.  i wanted her narrow feet and an older brother.  she could wear all the cool shoes.  

there was even a small part of me that wanted her mother.  or really, i wanted my mother to be the kind of mom that her mother was.  like i said, it was a very small part.  this little piece of me wanted a mom who was home every afternoon, who was first in line to pick me up at preschool, who always had a pitcher of kool-aid waiting when we got home.  instead, my mother worked sixty-hour weeks in a profession she helped to open to women.  she was (she is) a pioneer.  and this is the thing: sometimes life is tough on the frontier.  

my mom stood up for what she believed in and she withstood a whole lot of back-biting and complaining.  she ran errands and she ran meetings and she ran late.  

it used to drive me crazy that i was always the last kid to be picked up from school. i was ashamed to end up in the principal's office, under the withering gaze of mrs. spenrath (emphasis on wrath), the school secretary.  as i waited, i bit my nails and tapped my feet.  i strained to hear the particular click of my mom's heels on the linoleum.  i tried not to make eye contact with the mrs. s.  i tried not to think about what might keep my mom from me--like a heart attack or a car accident or a freak tornado. my anxiety fueled horrific daydreams of death and destruction.  surely it was only disaster that kept my mother from me?   and when it turned out that she'd been caught in a meeting or stuck on the phone, i remember the anger and the strangle of tears.  i was relieved and broken at the same time.  just because it was a common occurrence, it never became routine for me.  


you love your work more than you love me, i accused.  i would never put other people ahead of my children, i swore.  i won't be like you, i promised. 

this week, i was late to pick up the little boy for the first time.   

it happened like this: i was at a meeting in another suburb.  i told the people at the table that i needed to leave, even if they wanted to stay.  they all agreeably joined in the packing up of notepads and the gathering of purses and laptops.  and then as i was heading down the stairs, one of them wanted to tell me just one more thing.  and then as i was rounding the corner, one of them needed me to check my calendar.  and then as i was crossing the parking lot, one of them asked for clarification about something.  and then as i was driving away...

you get the idea.

as i drove over the speed limit, with one eye on the clock, i realized that there was no way i was going to be on time.  even if i leaned forward in my seat trying to propel myself that extra inch.

i thought about that old promise to myself.  once again, i was the one in a panic. what would happen to him if i didn't get there? who would i have to explain myself to?  how could i make them understand that i had the best intentions? how do you tell someone that no, you do not have one more second for them? how do you ever explain that you didn't give away that time freely, that it was taken and that you wish you could take it all back. that you, too, would rather just pour a round of kool-aid.

my son is too young to know that i was dashing in at the last minute.  but i knew.  and as i tossed his bag over my shoulder and raced out of the daycare center with him on my hip hoping to avoid a confrontation with the staff, i knew that i was in the wrong.  

i had been all along.  tonight i need to call my mom and apologize.  i'm sure it won't be the last time.