First of all, the whole lot of us walked over the line to El Nopal to party it up for Ethan and Freddy’s birthdays.
On a side note, I have a story.
Every Friday after school I drive our three kids (Jake, Freddy and Katie) out to their dad Jason’s house, but first, I have to get Jake to his guitar lesson by 4 o’clock. It’s a bit hectic on a normal day you know, just having to keep three people alive (two of which are teenagers) in a van with no escape for a solid half hour. But one particular Friday afternoon was a bit hairier than usual (I can’t exactly recall why, specifically, but I can list off about five probable options involving poo or a bad spill or a combination of the two).
I was uptight. I was grumpy. And for whatever reason, I felt justified to be a bag. I yelled a bunch of stupid stuff that I didn’t mean and I made Katie cry. I saw her face in my rear view mirror and I knew I had hurt her. What I didn’t know, was that Jake recorded the whole thing with his video camera on his phone.
I dropped the boys off and then I took Katie out for a drive and apologized to her and we both cried and hugged. Thankfully she forgave me. After I dropped her off at Jason’s, Jake texted me the video and I sat in my van and watched it, and my heart broke all over again.
It’s one thing to act like an asshole and then apologize and tuck it away like a fraying bra strap and another thing entirely to re-live it in stereo. The reality of the shrill sound of my voice, yelling irrationally at my baby girl, hit me hard. I was so ashamed.
What would our lives look like if we lived every moment as if we were being recorded? I know I’d be less of an asshole. I know that my hair wouldn’t be in a ponytail as much. And I know for sure that I’d take that extra few seconds every day to check for stray black facial hairs.