I had a few hours of free time on Sunday, and because I lead a very sexy life, I used the time to clean out my pantry. It’s a little room off my kitchen that has, over the last six years since my son came home, transitioned from a cute, chandeliered office/pantry to an enter-at-your-own-risk-I-can’t-be-responsible-for-what-falls-on-your-head room. It was time.
Photos, party supplies, glue guns, three coffee makers, expired cupcake mix – I sorted and filed and moved and tossed. I was on the last shelf, and yanked down a big, big box marked “ice cream social.” Huh? Two things: one, why do I have a huge box marked ice cream social? And two, I do not even remember being the person who had time to appropriately label stuff in my pantry.
I opened the box, and inside was everything you need for the coolest kid party ever. There was a shake maker, snow-cone machine, cotton candy spinner, and a cake pop baker. Long-handled spoons, ice cream bowls and a bright table cloth with ice cream cones printed on it. At the bottom of this box, the cherry on this surprise sundae, was a lime green pedestal that held six small bowls for ice cream toppings. Sitting in the middle of the spinning pedestal was a ceramic cupcake with a removable lid for hot fudge or caramel or strawberry sauce. It was summer and Pinterest and laughing children in one, clever serving piece. It was darling.
I wanted to throw the darling cupcake as hard as I could against the wall.
Instead, I sat down next to the box called “ice cream social” and cried.
I remember this stuff. I bid on it at a silent auction years ago, back when ice cream socials and impromptu play dates and birthday parties had starring roles in my parenting plan. Back before I knew that my son’s meltdowns were not a phase and back when I thought he played by himself because he was shy. Back before I had any idea that I would not be a soccer mom, but a special needs mom.
What I have here is a box full of plans for a kid that I don’t have. Some days, like today, it makes me sad.
I was crying for my son, but I’ll admit I was also crying for me. Instead of six different ice cream toppings always on hand for my son’s friends, I have an endless supply of pens for his therapists. Instead of being the house that everyone comes to, we are the people that are never home. Instead of bike rides, we have speech therapy, instead of swim parties, we go to OT.
Do I begrudge this? Not ever. But is this what I planned? No. Every once in a while, not very often, but every once in a while, I give myself permission to grieve for the life I don’t have, to think about the mom I don’t get to be.
I wrapped up the cupcake and put it back in the box. One day. Maybe. In the meantime, the sweetest boy in the world was on his way home. As moms go, I think I’m doing okay. Ice cream socials are fun, but my son needs a mom with a backbone, some fight and a strong voice. I’ve got that.
But just so you know, I would have made an awesome soccer mom.