Parent Trip

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© 2002 R.C. Barajas

nd it begins again.

One backpack is ripping. Right there at the straps, the threads unraveling even as I watch it hoisted onto those small shoulders. Overloaded a few too many times with piles of take-it-or-lose-it stuff, hastily torn down from classroom walls by battle-weary teachers at the end of June.

I should have gotten him a new backpack.His brother got one, after all, but then, that brother is the proverbial squeaky wheel and so gets more than his due, truth be told. This one never seems to take any notice of the condition of his things, and will in fact wear the most decrepit shirt in his drawer if it happens to be on top of the pile. I should have looked more closely when I stuffed in the new school supplies. Is this a reflection of how I really feel about my kids? Do I in fact love one above the others and therefore unconsciously, adorn him more? Will I be confronted one day by an angry young adult who throws such things in my face, things like the ragged backpack he had to use in 2nd grade while his brother got the gleaming new Jansport with the infinite number of snappy black zippers and the padded straps? I am pretty sure I like all my children the same, but surely something evil will come of this. I will be responsible for some horrible aberration of character by either withholding or smothering.

Back to school time tends to dredge up a whole boatload of issues. Not the least of which is the Guilt that comes with kids. It is packaged with them, preassembled and ready to eat right out of the package. Totally non-refundable. If there were a recipe for making kids — other than the traditional one, that is — you could substitute any ingredient you wanted to, except Guilt. The recipe would warn,

"Do not attempt the use of cheaper imitations such as self-abnegation, over compensation, and generalized angst. They are not adequate substitutions and may result in such problems as failure to rise, failure to cook evenly, failure to be palatable... you get the picture. The operative theme here is Failure."

Last week the three boys sat around the table eating the last of a gallon of cookie-dough ice cream — an end-of-summer treat. Fears were voiced as they averted their eyes, fishing around in the bland white ice cream for the treasured chunks of cookie dough.

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