to my children on Yom Kippur

It may be years before you can read this, and will certainly be years before it makes sense, but I'm sorry. I'm sorry for snapping at you; I'm sorry for expecting and often requiring that you adopt my priorities as your own. I'm sorry for the times I have hurt your feelings with harsh words, inattention, dismissiveness or misunderstanding that I don't take the time to repair in the moment. I'm sorry for not allowing your personalities to develop unadulterated by my own hang-ups; I'm sorry for consulting books to make sure you're not sociopaths. Despite that I can almost guarantee that I will yearly ask forgiveness for the same thing, I'm sorry for my frequent inability to nurture your psyche before I foist reason upon you. I'm sorry for the times I inadvertently embarrassed you though I will no doubt continue to do that, too. I'm sorry for the times I tried to make you be different than you are.

May you be sealed in the book of life, which I don't believe in, except in your cases (I'm sorry for my uncharacteristic inconsistencies). I will tell you abridged versions of these at bedtime, as the sun sets, and you will ask for an apple or offer a hug; your hands will repeatedly, noisily "blast off" and your fingers will walk up my nose and into my hair (I'm sorry I make no attempt at hiding how annoying I find that) while you interrupt me to talk about a new kind of car you've invented. Please forgive me for the times I've taken these scenes for granted. Thanks for sticking with me while I try to do better.

Love,
mama