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I do like to share! But sometimes, I don’t. Mom got this picture in the mail and then she hung it up on the big board in the kitchen. She thinks it’s funny. I don’t. It makes me mad!

I share stuff with my big brother and my sister and my friends at school. And I share with my baby cousins. But I don’t always want to.

Babies! Who needs them?

When I woke up today, Mom told me that G.B. (Gargantuan Baby) was coming over to play. She took out all the baby toys and put the gate around the stove. Ha! G.B. doesn’t know that fire is hot? I know that fire is hot.

Well, G.B. and his dad came over but then, G.B.’s dad left without G.B.! Mom said he was going to the mountain to play in the snow.

I want to go play in the snow but Mom won’t come outside with me. She says we have to watch the baby inside. Harumph!

But I get to watch TV and I do…until G.B. wrecks my train track. That makes me mad! I made that! I jump off the couch and lay down on top of my trains. “Mom!” I yell. “He’s messing up my train track!”

Mom tells me to be nice to the baby.

Stupid baby.

These are MY toys. Mine. My own.

Oh, fine. He can play with my trains. I’ll play with my airplane. It makes cool noises. 1, 2, 3, blast off!

Uh-oh. Here comes G.B. “No, G.B.! This is MINE!” I run away. He can only crawl. He can’t catch me. I hold my airplane up high, where he can’t reach.

“Henry?” Mom is calling. “Keep an eye on G.B. while I set up the pack and play.”

I stop running. That’s my pack and play.

Harumph.

Wait! Where is G.B. going? He’s moving towards…he’s trying to get…PIGGY! “NO!” I shout. I grab her and put her behind my back. She is safe, but he is crying. Wow. He’s loud. I cover my ears. Mom picks him up and takes him away.

I’m all alone. I feel bad. G.B.’s just a baby. He’s not a big boy like me. I peek into the living room. G.B. and Mom are reading a book about trucks.

That’s my Mom.

I walk over. “Mom, can I sit in your lap?”

She says yes and makes room for me. I look at G.B. out of the corner of my eye. This is alright. I guess. I like this book. Trucks are cool. G.B. squirms away from us.

I’m watching you, G.B. I see you.

Mom makes lunch. She feeds G.B. in a special chair with a tray. He is eating applesauce. I am eating spaghettios with meatballs. I smile at G.B. I make a funny face at him. He screeches. I wince. Mom says it’s OK, that it’s his way of laughing.

The applesauce dribbles off G.B.’s chin. He spits more of it out when he makes a raspberry noise. Hey! I like to make those noises too! I make one. G.B. laughs. It makes me feel good. I giggle.

But only a little.

I have been debating whether or not to post this as I want to maintain custody of my children. I’m only half-joking. No judging.

The babysitter hasn’t shown up, the older kids are still in their pajamas, and I am running late. Although I managed to get Henry dressed, he found—and is enlarging—a previously unnoticed rip in his pants while regarding his uneaten breakfast, now congealed and unappetizing. Today is Henry’s first day of preschool; the one I picked based on the school’s reputation (excellent) and proximity to our house (close).

I am feeling a bit apprehensive on his behalf in spite of my confidence in his social skills. After all, until recently, he has attended an all-day daycare, four days a week. He’s a social butterfly—I’ve witnessed it. No, my butterflies must stem from something else. Perhaps my awareness that a responsible parent eases her child through the transition to a new school. Henry missed both of the school-sponsored playdates due to our family’s packed summer schedule. He knows no one and hasn’t even seen his classroom. The closest we came to visiting this school was to look at the outside of the locked building from the inside of our vehicle. Sure, I talked with him about leaving his old daycare and tried to excite him about going somewhere new. But talk is not action. Any anxiety he is now experiencing is my fault. My plan is to make-up for my deficient parenting by spending the morning with him exploring his new space, facilitating conversations with his peers, helping him accept this change that was out of his control.

Of course, things do not always go as planned. Reality dissipates my vision. My choices: 1) Leave Medium and Large seated comfortably in front of the television at home; or 2) Bring Medium and Large with me and allow them to bicker and complain in the school’s parking lot. Neither of these options appeal, but I am out of time.

I hastily run through the list of admonishments: Lock the door behind me; do not answer the phone; do not answer the door; do not operate the stove; do not touch the computer; stay away from the windows; and remember to dial 911 if there is an emergency.

Henry protests that he wants to stay home and watch TV too. Tossing him into the vehicle, I buckle his seatbelt (I am not wholly irresponsible) and then recall that I have forgotten to tell Liam that I will be back in half an hour. I race up the front steps and ring the doorbell. I hear the patter of little feet and then the door is unlocked and opened. “Yes?” Liam asks.

I unthinkingly do a poor imitation of Edward Lewis: “I told you not to open the door.”

“Oh, right,” he says, before slamming the door in my face.

I knock and yell for him to re-open the door. When he does, I tell him not to worry and that I will be right back.

Henry sucks his thumb in the backseat. He clutches Piggy to his nose and inhales what I suspect is the scent of sweaty little boy with undertones of yesterday’s entrees: pizza, peanut butter and banana. He is silent.

Starting the engine, I murmur a brief prayer to whomever might be listening to protect my children from the monsters that hide in plain sight.

My guilt is monstrous. I have never left my children alone in the house before. I know that if my husband did this, I would be furious with him. I try and convince myself that the kids are safe; that I am not a bad mother.

Is it acceptable to assuage one guilt by accepting another?

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