Guilt Runneth Over

Something you need to know about our family is that we waited for Spicy Girl for a very, very long time. Eight years to be exact. Eight years of blood work, fertility treatments, the adoption paper chase and then the ensuing wait.

In China, eight is a very lucky number. And we are very, very lucky to have her.

I feel as if I have to say all this to quell the enormous amount of guilt that I am feeling right now about a thought that runs through my head each and every day. Namely this: When I pick up spicy girl at day care at the end of the day, and she comes running towards me with arms outstretched—is she going to be a filthy, dirty, sweaty, mess?

There, I said it. And I’m sick about it.

Now, truth be told, I am a guilt-ridden woman. Every ethnicity thinks that their “people” have the corner on guilt, but I believe that I’ve got a pretty solid genetic line (Italian and Eastern European Jew) that runs through my bones, which makes me feel overwhelmed with guilt even in the most mundane settings. For instance, you would never find me in a 10 items or less line with eleven items. Or, when I have items rung up at the store at the wrong price—and it’s in my favor—I seek out the manager, point out the error, and insist on giving them my money.

So, imagine you are me in the following scenario.

You roll into day care with 7 minutes to spare before the “you’re late, so you pay more” clock gets turned on. You grab her stuff from the cubby and head out to the playground. And there you are, in your business attire (which, by the way could make it to another day of use without heading to the dry cleaner), and there she is, heading at you in full, sweaty, screaming glory, trailed by a Pig-Pen-inspired dust ball. And while she is absolutely, gloriously happy to see you, all you are thinking is, “Ewwwwwwww.”

Thankfully, I won’t have to wait eight years for a new white linen skirt.