Last week, I started my day with a good dose of guilt. Parenting offers near-unparalleled opportunities for guilt. In fact, the more I think about it, I would say "unparalleled opportunities" without qualification . . . so much so that I am today starting a "mom guilt" label.
This particular packet of Guilt is hanging out with its good friend, Shame. Last week, I watched a huge semi truck back in to the grocery store loading bay. I mean, this truck was massive. The driver handled it like a surgeon's scalpel and edged it into the bay, next to another truck, with literally inches to spare.
Enter self, in the Huge Silver GroceryGetter, at the library this past summer. We are backing out, and I am dutifully resting my chin on my shoulder, looking behind me but talking to He'en at the same time.
He'en: "Mom? What wass DAT?"
Mom: "Um, that was Mommy bonking into another car."
And that word you heard Mommy say, I hope you never repeat that. Or, if you do, say that you didn't learn it in this house. I wouldn't mind cussing like a trucker if only I could drive like a trucker.