I’m serving my daughter stale crackers and a some cubes of cheddar for lunch because I’ve been too busy pushing through another article to go buy groceries. She munches away, but I feel the eyes of the world peering in my large front window, hear their voices saying, “What is she thinking?”
Some days I’m clear. I’m set. I’m confident. Other days I think I must be ruining my children, damaging their psyches, sending them unalterable signals that will make them question my love. I comfort myself in these times by thinking back to my own childhood and realizing how much I don’t remember.
I don’t remember ever feeling unloved, even though my Mom was busy, over the years heading up local and state organizations and running a variety of small business ventures. Sometimes my questions had to wait because she was on a phone call. Sometimes we spent Saturday afternoon helping her stuff mailers for a state-wide convention.
I don’t remember every feeling neglected, though we ate out-of-the-freezer fish sticks or chicken pot pies or canned tomato soup for lunch many days. I don’t remember feeling unimportant, even when Mom was too busy for an hour of coloring with me. continue reading…