Month 19: I Plead Guilty

I blame coffee. Or, rather, the lack thereof. If we hadn't been out of coffee, I would never have suggested that we change out of our warm PJs and go out to breakfast on Saturday morning, thus setting off a disastrous chain of events.

But we were up, we were tired (except for Miles, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed since 6:30 a.m.), and I, at least, needed some serious caffeine. So we set off. On the way there, C. remarked, “7:59 a.m. on a Saturday and we’re on our way to breakfast. How times have changed.” Ain’t that the truth.

We picked a neighborhood restaurant, nicer than a diner but still kid-friendly. Or so I thought. As a pile of crumbs and table scraps began to accumulate under Miles’ high chair, I saw a guy who was sweeping the floor eye him warily. “Sorry about that. He’s going to keep you busy,” I half-joked. The guy did not smile back. Nice. The sun was barely up and I was already feeling guilty.

Let me just say here that I am no stranger to guilt. I have always cared way too much what other people think. If someone’s mad, I assume it’s my fault. If something goes wrong, I assume I am in some way responsible. Not like responsible for 9/11, but partly to blame for, say, a dining companion not liking their food. I know, it’s stupid.

Since I became a mom, guilt is pretty much my constant state of being. I felt guilty for keeping my doula at the hospital for the bazillion hours I was in labor. I felt guilty for sending the baby to the nursery so I could sleep. I felt guilty for not being overjoyed every second of every day. I felt guilty for snapping at my husband all the time. I felt guilty for not calling people back. I felt guilty for letting the baby cry, for not feeding him organic rice cereal, for not breastfeeding longer, and on and on. You name it, I felt guilty about it.

And it seems the older Miles gets, the more I have to feel guilty about. He makes huge messes at restaurants, he pushes other kids at the playground, he won’t sit still on planes, and he’s often very, very loud. But what can I do? Nothing but feel guilty, that’s what.

So after our tense breakfast -- where we hugely overtipped, I might add -- we went to the mall. Miles demanded to be let out of the stroller immediately. We chased him all over Macy’s, repeatedly grabbing his shirt mere seconds before he snatched some glass snowflake or porcelain Santa and smashed it to smithereens.

Stupidly, we continued on to the Gap. C. had wrestled Miles back into the stroller and was pushing him past a display of seasonal bath products when -- SMASH! Miles tipped a glass bottle of bath oil onto the floor.

While I am standing there, mortified, picking up glass shards, C. nonchalantly WALKS AWAY. I could have killed him. Later, he explained it this way, “What? It was an accident. Kids break stuff. The Gap is a huge corporation. I’ve spent tons of money there over the years. So, no, I don’t feel bad at all.”

Whereas I had grabbed a fistful of paper towels from the salesgirl to help her clean up the mess, all the while sputtering apologies. ("Sorry. I’m SO sorry! Did I mention how sorry I am?") Should I offer to pay for the bath oil? Was she going to call security? Overwhelmed with guilt, I scooped up a handful of overpriced lip glosses, paid for them, and high-tailed it out of there.

Then, on the way home, we got pulled over and ticketed for an expired registration. Can you guess how that made me feel? That’s right, all together now, people: GUILTY!! Though not too guilty to briefly consider bribing the cop with some cranberry lip balm.

READ O’ THE WEEK: How timely of Real Simple magazine to run a feature on how to avoid feeling guilty in the Dec. issue. Some of their suggestions: “Confess” to someone else (since secrecy breeds guilt); try to make amends; and give yourself credit for what you do right.