The Aftertaste of Guilt: An Acquired Taste Moms Learn to Live With

Ever have a day that completely turns on its head and rears an amazingly ugly face that seems almost like a joke? That was Monday. After spending eight hours working at home, I run off to pick up my five-year-old from football camp. (That means soccer, as I live in London.) I’m on the bus looking at all the twinkle lights on High Street Kensington. We drive past Queen’s Gate in Hyde Park and across it the gorgeous Royal Albert Hall with its immense Christmas tree standing proudly in the lobby. I’m feeling better after being cooped up all day in my home office writing and editing.

 

Walking down Exhibition Street towards the huge Fit For Sport building where my son is, I see families returning from The Science Museum or The Museum of Natural History that now has an ice-skating rink set up for the holidays. Everyone looks quite happy and rejuvenated.

 

Inside the complex, I see my son playing indoor football with about five others and a counselor, and he ignores me. I try to give him a hug and tell him it’s time to go home and he yells, “NO!” I back off, realizing that some of the children are staying later than the 4:30 p.m. sign-up time. The counselor tells me that some children can stay until 5:30, but you have to pay ahead of time. So I tell William, ‘You can stay until 5:30 tomorrow, but we didn’t pay for that today. You’ve been here eight hours and had so much fun, let’s go home, maybe we’ll get a hot chocolate (I’m not below a little bribery).”

 

He ignores me and runs toward the goal set up in the gymnasium. I see the overgrown camp counselor give me the look I’m now quite familiar with that seems to say, “Spoiled Americans.” So I decide to physically go and pick him up. I am wrangling with his coat and saying: “time to get on the bus,” (as he adores riding on the top of the double-decker buses.) William seems to be okay, or so I think.