At age thirty-three, I crawled beside my mother in our guest bed and began to sob. “If he woke up right now and needed to go to the hospital, I wouldn’t be sober enough to drive him,” I wailed. “He” being my one-year-old son.
You made me feel like I was a part of your family.
If I read one more mommy blog that proclaims “We are all just doing our best,” I may gouge my eyeballs out. When I was at my personal suckiest, I ate this drivel up with a spoon. It was with equal enthusiasm that I inhaled the old “I have no regrets” cliché.