I get it. All of it. And I'm sorry.
Allow me to deconstruct this apology.
Remember how you would sometimes drive me to school and you would have nappy, unwashed hair, no make-up, no bra, all covered up in your terry cloth robe? And I was embarrassed? Well, now I'm doing it to my kids. Because I'm too tired to even care what my ass looks like when I take them to school. I've been up since 6 AM (earlier if my brain decides 5 AM is a more awesome wake-up time), I've woken up three cranky kids, dressed them, packed their lunches, made beds, maybe even folded laundry all in the span of 90 minutes. I'm tired. And I still have to exercise, so a shower and make-up is out of the question. I totally understand. I literally don't care if what I look like is causing my children extreme shame. I just want to get them to school and get home and I realize that someday, when they have children of their own, they'll understand. And if they don't, too damned bad.
I also remember how you would humiliate me on purpose. You know, try to sing to Devo or dance to the latest Duran Duran song, all in front of my friends. It's because I caused you labor pains, pooped all over the house, barfed on you, and screamed and cried and threw tantrums in public. I get it. Because every time Bubba doesn't want a kiss and says OOOOOO! YUCK! whenever I get close to his cheek, I just want to lick the entire right side of his face. In front of his school friends. And most of Atlanta. On stage. At the Philips Arena.
I also understand why you threw away my How To Be A Valley Girl book. I was 12 and all my friends had the book and being a Valley Girl was the height of 1983 fashion. I loved that book and then it suddenly disappeared. After I wandered around for a month trying to find it, you fessed up and admitted that you and Dad had chucked it because It wasn't appropriate reading material for a 12 year old girl. I was pissed. Beyond angry. But I get it now. Because every time my kids bring home a Silly Band or demand to watch Spongebob Squarepants, I want to throw away the offending plastic bracelets and the DirecTV dish and look at them with a blank stare and a declaration of I have no idea what happened to them. I get it. After months of listening to me shout Like, gag me with a spoon! Fer Shur! I know you were at the end of your parenting-in-the-face-of-the-latest-fad-rope. Because I'm about at the end of my OMFG-not-another-plastic-bracelet-on-the-floor rope and these kids are only five and three.
There are many more secrets of motherhood and parenting that I will be privy to in the future. As I realize them, I'm sure I'll be offering even more apologies. For now, accept these.
Love, Your Remorseful Daughter