How To Be Your Mother

You are newly seven. We are at a children’s festival waiting in line at a food truck. You, your brother and your father run around on the lush grass nearby, and you check back six times asking if the food is ready. When at last I reach the front of the line, you are standing next to me as I order. “I’ll have … ” but the order-taker interjects: “Be with you in one moment.” I grit my teeth, inhale sharply and tussle your hair. You watch the order taker help the cooks; your eyes follow her as she changes the oil in the sweet potato fryer and restocks the all-natural soda and the biodegradable forks, arranging them just so. She disappears for a minute. Suddenly, she reappears inside the truck and announces, “We are out of hot dogs.”

You hear my too-loud voice snarl. “Are you kidding me? I have been standing in line for 45 minutes, and now you ran out of hot dogs?”

Silence. You watch the cooks inside the truck stop their burger flipping to gape at your mother, this harried woman angry over hot dogs. You hear me rant on. “Didn’t you know you were running low before just … just springing it on us? It’s only noon, and here you are at a children’s event. It’s a universal rule that the one item all children will eat is a hot dog!”

You catch my arm as we walk away. “Mom,” you say, “what if I grow up and work there, and you don’t recognize me? Would you say the same thing to me if I made that mistake?” You squint up at me as I mumble something about teaching you to make better choices.

You run ahead to watch the show. Suspended in midair, trapeze artists flip and twist in smashing single-arm holds. There is a children’s band, and the lead singer is wearing a chicken mask. Your request to purchase overpriced maracas is turned down, and we bang on the tables instead. You dance in the sun, and all the while your words stay with me.

That night, as I tuck you into bed I say, “I have been thinking about your question—how you asked if I would be angry at you if you made a mistake and I did