...which may not be an entirely bad thing,
although instead I may have caused a trauma that will help instill a flair for drama.
We missed Helena's end-of-term theatre recital. (Yes, for two-year-olds. Last term was music.) I didn't know.
I assumed we missed the note — her course is on Mondays, and last Monday she stayed home.
Yesterday's daily report noted the performance, and that Helena was a bit stupefied in the presence of so many spectators.
The guilt that hit me when I read this was overwhelming. I didn't talk to her group leader about it for fear that I'd break down.
Helena seems to be OK with things. If anything, my tearful apologies are freaking her out more than my absence might have.
It turns out, J-F knew, and neglected to tell me. The oversight is somewhat mitigated by the fact he was writing an exam yesterday and had a lot on his mind, not to mention the general chaos of our surroundings and the effect of other home-purchase-related crap. But still...
I have to call this Parenting Fuck-up #1.
(Yes, #1 — we'll start counting fresh with this one, relegating all previous mishaps, like the time Helena rolled off the kitchen table, to another era, of Infant/Baby Care, as opposed to the active moral and social guidance, education, and encouragement of emotional or artistic expression required of actual Parenting.)
Forgive me, little one. I know you're awesome at pretending to be a fish, and you're a proficient puppetmaster, manipulating your stuffed toys and putting words in their mouths. You have a fine sense of comedic timing, and when we play monster hunting I totally buy into the concern and fear you emote. So please, understand why I wasn't there for you, and don't interpret it as a lack of support — if you really want a career on the stage, I know you have it in you to make it happen, and I'll do what I can to help.