Sins of a Mother

Forgive me, everyone, for I have sinned.

I have given cookies with dinner,

I have given cookies for dinner.

I have popped bottoms,

I have shouted shitty words,

I have occasionally ignored cries for help both figurative and literal.

I have indolently idolized my iPhone and poured too-hot gossip into little pitchers’ big ears.

I have snapped thousands of pictures of my cherubs in adorably embarrassing situations and stored them in the cloud for future humiliation.

And lastly, I have led my children and myself to believe we are the most amazing, intelligent, important persons on the planet, when deep within, I know this to be thoroughly unprovable and highly unlikely, and when they discover the truth, they will begin to descend the timeworn spiral staircase of I Hate My Mom.

For these and all the sins I can’t remember, because I am always somewhat sleep deprived, I am sorry. I have forgiven myself, and I cling like a baby sock to a chenille blankie to the hope that you truly are too young and loving to remember any of this.