Rollercoaster lows

None of these have been my finest moments in parenting.

The times when we've stayed out too late with friends, permitting mounting sugar and tiredness in little bodies, knowing full well when the meltdown came, who was responsible.

Tempers lost during particularly rushed mornings, when "I said, you need to get your shoes on now" has sounded less like encouragement and more like a drill order.

Or that time I dumped a bucket of water on T's head because we were all tired and she wouldn't rinse the shampoo out of her hair.

But tonight I experienced a new level of maternal failure.

Its pain comes, in part, from its relative innocence. T and N had a performance at their after-school program. For weeks we've heard the off-tune squeak of Moana and Justin Timberlake lyrics. I told them, co-workers and grandparents that I was not picking them up after school at our usual Thursday time, I'd stay at work later so that they could prepare and I'd arrive for their performance at 5:30 p.m.  T was in the first song, N was in the last, they kept emphasizing.

It had been yet another busy, stressful day during a sandwich week between two work trips; there was far too much on my plate and everyone else's. I tried to push through a few more things as the hour rounded 5 p.m. when I remembered I'd parked at the bottom of the hill. I rushed out, hustled down the hill in high-heels, checking traffic, calculating routes, driving a little too fast, not calling my folks so that I could concentrate. Turning onto the kids' school's street I relaxed - 5:27 p.m., I'd made it!

Outside was a bit quiet, only a couple parents hurrying in. I entered the packed auditorium, saw another class singing on stage.  Then, I saw her. Noticing me from the floor, I got a glimpse of her furious, tear-streaked face before she whipped her head and body away. Her shoulders were heaving.

I had missed it.

I grabbed a program, with the insolent 5 p.m. start time glaring from the top line. I scribbled furiously, trying to explain, then ran up and passing it to her like I too, was in second grade. She thrust it off her lap, while her friend whispered the obvious: she's really sad that you missed her performance. I said, I know, that's why I wrote this note. The next song starting, I retreated to the aisle. Her friends passed the note around, one even getting up to share the drama with her parents; I was mortified. T still refused to read it.

After another song or two, N took the stage to give the Kindergartener's finale. T wouldn't even look at me. I tried to wave at N so at least he'd see I was there, but I was terrified it would add salt to T's wound if she noticed. In the end, even he thought I hadn't come.

The performance ended, everyone jumping up to hug their loved ones. I ran to T. She wouldn't even let me touch her, let alone hug her, apologize, or coax her to the car. She was heartbroken. People congratulating their little performers tried not to stare at our spectacle. A sobbing child and her distraught mother, also in tears, unable to move in the middle of a packed auditorium of revelers.

Eventually, I coaxed her outside. Where we slumped against a wall and cried at the pain and disappointment wrought by a 30 min mistake. Eventually, we went home.

Tonight, she made the family an illustrated book with all of us in it and a note on her page: "I love you"

N also suggested a re-do for T's performance. It's not going to undo the disappointment of searching an audience in vain for the one person you wanted to be there. But it's a new memory to add to the imperfect journeys of both growing up and parenting.