Sebastian brought home a picture he made at school a couple days before Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. He handed it to me casually, faintly pleased with it. Another piece for the fridge.
I held it in my hands and smiled. Then I flipped it over, read the words “I am sorry to Ima for when I hit her”, and cried.  
Such a simple plea for forgiveness. And I thought it’s ok, I always love you. And I thought, I too am sorry. And then the well wherefrom a mother’s complex and conflicted feelings of guilt, desire, and vulnerability spring, flooded through me.
I am sorry for when I lose it: my temper, my patience, my sanity. I never mean to. I always mean to stay calm, firm, composed. I am sorry for when I let all the other things on my mind clamber over and cloud the one transparent thing  – you, in the moment.
I am sorry for sometimes wanting to strangle you when all I really want is to hold you and hug you. Forever.