The last thing I do before I leave the house for work is to make sure I roust the boys. Just a quick check to make sure they are conscious enough to make their way out of bed and off to school unscathed.
Yesterday when I got to work at 7, I noticed that I had a voicemail.
Really? Really? Is this my life?
And with that one little word, delivered sotto voce, the Mommy Guilt slams into my chest and goes from zero to a zillion in a nanosecond. Why did I let us run out of Aunt Jemima? Why didn’t I get some yesterday? Why do I even let them eat that garbage in the first place? Now what? Will he get enough breakfast? Will he bother to make lunch? Why didn’t I make lunch? Why am I not there? Am I scarring the boys for life? Where can I get them a good therapist? Can therapy wait until they are 21 so I don’t have to pay for it? Will they grow up to be men capable of functioning in the real world? Or at least life outside of Lakewood? And most importantly will they ever, ever, have to experience the shame of not keeping their kid in pancake syrup?