Dripping sweat, I staggered in the door after my Sunday afternoon run, only to hear my two-year-old wailing “Mammmmmaaaaaaaa!”
“What happened?” I asked my husband, who I found standing outside the bathroom. I peered in to see my son sitting on the potty, his face red and damp. “He hasn’t been like this since he woke up, has he?”
I recalled some of my last words as I headed out the door: “Make sure you wake up [Little Bird].”
My husband winced. “Well, he didn’t want me to get him out of bed. And then he didn’t want to go on the potty. Then he refused to let me help him off the potty. Then he didn’t want me in the room at all.”
Walking into the bathroom, I sighed, leaned down and helped my son off the potty. After pulling up his pants and helping him wash his hands, I picked him up. HIs small arms wrapped around my neck while mine embraced him. My sweat dampened his shirt as his small face pressed into my shoulder. His crying slowed and finally subsided.
Guilt pierced me. So did anger.
“Can’t I be gone for just a half-hour?” I thought. “But maybe not. Maybe I shouldn’t.”
