We are down to our last three days of school.
Which means we are in the end-of-the-year-party zone.
I hate end-of-the-year parties.
And all the activities that go along with them.
The relay races.
The water balloon tosses.
The ice cream sundaes.
I hate making awkward conversation with moms that I don’t know very well.
I hate pretending like I am having fun watching my kid participate in these games and activities,
all I’m doing is smiling,
and waiting for it to be over.
Thinking about all the other crap that I could be getting done.
Or that I’d rather be doing.
But I know the kids like having me there.
And I always feel bad for those one or two kids whose mom or dad can’t make it.
Those kids still have fun, but you can see it in their eyes.
They are bummed.
And that’s why we go to these things.
Because the look on your kid’s face when you walk in the door far outweighs the look of dread that you are hiding on yours.
Number 3 has his party today.
And for the first time ever,
he’s going to be one of those kids.
Without the mom at the party.
With that increasingly sinking feeling every time a mom or dad walks into the room.
And it’s not his.
I thought I’d be okay with this.
But now that I can’t go to his party,
I’m realizing maybe I don’t hate them quite as much as I thought I did.
Damn you, mom guilt.
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