Tumbling into the guilt trap
I was in the kitchen, huddled around a hot cup of coffee and savoring the last micro-seconds of alone time this morning when I heard a familiar pitter-patter."Mama still sweaty?" Miles asked as he slammed the kitchen door into the pantry, approaching me with hesitation."No, Mama's not sweaty," I told him. "Mama's drinking coffee." And has spin class at lunch.With the green light that his mama didn't resemble the Pacific Ocean with dead fish floating near him, he came over and gave my legs a squeeze. I patted him on his head, noticing that his buzz cut was growing out, and asked him if he slept good."I want a waffle."And that was that.Miles' inquiry into whether I was sweaty was not off-base. . . .