On the morning of Squish's second birthday, I woke up in a hotel room in Canada (work trip). I knew I would be home by 11 am that morning, but the Mom Guilt for not having been at home when he woke up on his birthday had been with me for days [weeks].
Two days earlier, on the day I flew to Toronto, I had bought Squish's daycare class mini cupcakes and left them on the kitchen
counter so that my husband could bring them in with the kids on Squish's birthday. I had also gone out to get Squish's birthday balloon and then hid it in the kitchen pantry. (The birthday balloon is meant to be the first thing a birthday boy sees when he wakes up and arrives in his room the night before his birthday.)
By the time I was back from Canada and in the cab home from the airport, I started to worry about whether the birthday balloon and the cupcakes had been delivered on time. On some level, I think I expected to walk into my apartment and see the balloon and cupcakes replaced with neon signs that read, "Good Moms Are Home On Birthdays," and "Good Moms Deliver."
I freaking hate Mom Guilt.
The good news is that my husband delivered both on time. (Thank you, sweet, awesome, amazing husband of mine.)
The really good news is how awesome it felt to pick Squish up from daycare that evening. He ran toward me with his mop of curls and a huge smile, and (almost) all of my guilt vanished as I scooped him up. Thank you, sweet Squish, for reminding me that there are no neon signs, that we do the best we can, and that, if you're ever feeling a little low, the best trick is probably to turn around and around and around and around and around and around in the kitchen until you careen into the wall and tumble to the floor giggling all the way down.
