I am so sorry. I have this tendency to over apologize. As if the words convey the same amount of sincerity each time they are senselessly uttered like a montage of movie clips. Don’t be sorry. Be quiet. Sorry! (Spaceballs). When I get angry, I want to yell out that I am just so sorry. Sorry for all the things I cannot control and all the things that the rest of the world (or my anxiety) perceive as wrong. I’M SORRY, ASSHOLE! (Uncle Buck). These days, most of my apologies are toddler related. The things they do that are beyond my control. I want to apologize. I’m not even confident on which end that came out of.” (Bridesmaids)
To the world; the unapproving stranger’s glance when I pull an Ipad out of my purse for my toddler and the looming Target meltdown. To the sock police, whose eyes the site of toddler feet in public have bludgeoned. To cashiers, servers, and customer service representatives who had to pretend their screaming voices are cute. To the person waiting for my parking spot as I buckle them in and dismantle a stroller. (or frustratingly say screw it and throw the entire unfolded beast in the back of my SUV) To the driver I flicked off in a fit of toddler style road rage, because driving is frustrating enough but then you add the stereo echo of crying and I am a kettle of boiling blood. To the three employees of Sears who collectively tried to stop my running son as he weaved in and out of washing machines and I trotted behind trying not to drop my crying daughter:
To my body; to my gut for the dinners of left over mac and cheese, Spaghetti O’s and PBJs. (and to those who I have offended for these staples in my children’s diet) To my liver for my coping methods of choice. To my nails, ghosts towns of former glory days of pedicures and manicures, now filled of neglect and chipping painting. To my hair: a tragedy of the simplest of equations –Money + -Time = Box Die (and to the math nerds who are fact checking my equation, please don’t forget the mom brain x 4 factor) To my dedication to personal style that my last shoe purchase identified as practical and I click on the “sweatshirts” tab first when online shopping. To my ears, for the new soundtrack of our lives: Paw Patrol. To my fragile psyche and my anxiety driven mind
To my family, my friends. I am sorry that you may worry if I am actually ok. To the text messages I forgot to return, the birthday wishes I didn’t send and the photos I forgot to like. For the fun times I have missed or not been completely present for. For the weddings I have gone to and sent a card a month later. To my poor nephew whose unexciting birthday present I still need to hand out. (From August). To my family I don’t get to visit very often after vowing it would never happen and to my friends I don’t have time to meet for drinks. To the times we finally get to catch up and I forget half of what we talked about, only to ask again a month later. To the memories not being made and the occasions I can’t remember to celebrate. To the new homes I have not seen and the new babies I have not met. To all the times I have said, “lets get together soon”.
To my teenage daughters, I am sorry that our weekends aren’t filled with trips to the mall and movies and I don’t always know your latest crush. For the milestones you are reaching that I am not whole heartedly celebrating. To my husband, for our times I have cursed you under my breath because you didn’t read my mind or tend to more screaming.
To my home. For the lights that took six months to change or the beds that remain unmade. For my dog that waits too long to be let out and thinks the smell coming out of the babies room makes for a good backup bathroom. To my refrigerator filter, my dishwasher filter, my water filter and my heating filter that will wait too long to be changed. To the refrigerator the needs cleaned out and the laundry that needs folded, and most importantly to the clutter that keeps building up. For the cars that need oil changes and the leaves that need raked.
I am sorry that I am unapologetically sorry for all these things in my life. For my inability to be a good adult. I am sorry I don’t save money or remember to pay bills on time. I am sorry I don’t have paid vacation or any sort of plan. Or that I don’t donate to enough school functions or even remember which of my kids was in band. I am sorry I feel this way, maybe it is my Lebanese and Irish catholic upbringing or my hyper sensitive anxiety, or my fixation with knowing the future. By yelling out all these things, I realize I am not really sorry at all – I have toddlers.