Last night, I had a Good Mommy Period on some more endless errands. Just the Lone Star Baby and I were out and I remembered to listen and encourage her when she wanted to tell me about all the ovals in all the signs at the store and about the owl display hanging from the ceiling and the circles and kitties and stars we saw on various displays and the snack she wanted. When we were waiting in line at the check-out, I played about eleven games of pat-a-cake with her, complete with enthusiastic hand motions. I was good.
I was so good that people noticed, even. I could just hear the thoughts of a couple of people in line with me: Such a good mother. And the thoughts of others: I hate that cheeseball supermommy crap. I felt good to be, at that moment, deserving of the first thoughts, but I was well aware that I am often more in sympathy with the thinkers of the latter thoughts...just that morning, in fact, I had plopped the screaming baby into her father's care and slipped outside quickly, sanity, for the preservation of. It's an up and down thing.
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