Aaagh!

Here’s the thing about being called mom: Somehow you become the one person responsible for keeping it all together while making it look natural. And on the off day when you don’t meet every expectation, the guilt forever haunts you.

I learned this lesson painfully.

Hayes “played mass” for the first time at carnival this year. For weeks, we looked forward to the costume, the parade and dancing across the stage at the Brooklyn Museum where the festivities culminate. On the day, Hayes’s grandfather showed up at 6am to deliver the costume that he had stayed up into the wee hours perfecting. And we were out the door by 8:30 to join the other masqueraders for the parade. Hayes resembled a West Indian genie in his super-cute costume. And I was a good mom prepared for the occasion. I had a smart lunch packed, a loaded camera in my bag and cash for Italian ices—and we ran through it all. But nothing beat Hayes winding and waving across the stage in front of the hundreds of party people. And I, a.k.a. good mommy, was in the front row taking pictures non-stop. I couldn’t wait to call friends and family who could stand to hear me gloat about my amazing son. And I did. We all looked forward to finally seeing the photos. I ran to the one-hour photo shop. I couldn’t possibly wait an entire day to see my little genie immortalized on photo paper.

When I returned for the pictures, I got bad news: The film was blank. The entire roll of Hayes in his costume parading down the street and dancing across the stage as if he were born to entertain the masses was blank. I have no record of the occasion except for my own memory, which will one day fade, and this one, lonely photo taken by a friend on her camera phone.



Cute. Sad. Painful.