Heart of Dixie says . . . Ridiculous guilt
Funny Girl is home from college and has been just wonderful to me this week. She’s spend all kinds of one-on-one quality time with me. This means so much, especially after she and Pensive Girl were gone to Virginia for Christmas.
She told me yesterday that she’s going to her dad’s today, and we were both sad. That was before she went to the mall to hang with friends, and then to go have dinner with friends. Pensive Girl had to work, so I thought I would run some errands (one of which was near Southern Man’s house) and have dinner with Southern Man.
Fifteen minutes after I got there, Funny Girl called and told me it was chick flick night. (Read: Mom, my plans got canceled.) So I boogied back home. Wouldn’t you? Quality time with a kid home from college? One who is leaving next week (although I hope she’ll come hang out). We laughed, we cried. We had fun. She decided to be my bed buddy (their room is tiny and crowded, and her bed is less than ideal). We looked at some http://www.damnyouautocorrect.com before going to sleep, and I got to laughing so hard that asthma kicked in.
The problem is that I didn’t drop everything and gush over Pensive Girl when she got home from work. She’s been here all week, but she’s felt distant. Yesterday, for example, as soon as she got up, she left to go see her boyfriend. I don’t know if the difference this week is that she has a car or if something happened in Virginia that made her keep me at arm’s length.
But last night, I was so happy that one girl has given me so much special time all week, that I felt like acting normal instead of making sure everyone felt exactly as special as everyone else. It’s normal to want to spend time with those who spend time with you, right?
We chatted some, sure. And we hugged. And we talked as best as we could with me sleepy (she got home late) and boyfriend present.
But after pleading sleepy and going to bed, I felt so much guilt wash over me as I was laughing and coughing to the autocorrect.
It isn’t favoritism. I don’t have a favorite. But by the time Pensive Girl got home last night, the party was about over. Still, though, I’m wondering how to fix this today. Proving that you don’t have a favorite seems contrived. Hamlet’s take on a woman’s desperate attempts to prove “normalcy” was, “The lady doth protest too much methinks.”
Pensive Girl could have seen through any fakeness. But I’m thinking I should have done it anyway. It is the role of a mother, isn’t it? To make sure no one feels like she is the favorite or least favorite. Even if the effort is ridiculous