Guilt: It's what's for breakfast

Guilt has been following me around this week like a faithful puppy.  In every area of my life, my guilt-puppy is there, eager to remind me that I've fallen short yet again.

A few examples:

I didn't go to the grocery store last night because I had an event at school, so this morning, there wasn't any cereal for breakfast.  While at school, I was reminded that I should do more than I'm doing currently, so my guilt-puppy talked me into volunteering for a committee that I do not have time for.  At work, in spite of successfully completing 987 projects, the one project I did not finish is enough to confirm that I am a horrible person who cannot be trusted with responsibility.

I also didn't get the laundry done, so Evan didn't have the red shirt that he needed for Field Day at school.  I forgot an important appointment, I arrived late to a meeting, and I failed to make my middle son's school physical appointment.  While we're at it, I don't call my mother often enough or keep consistently in touch with my friends.

I won't even mention the sugar that I shouldn't be eating.

Indeed, I'm not just visiting the neighborhood of guilt; I've constructed a permanent residence.

By the time I arrived home last night, I felt pretty beaten up.  All of those abusive mind-tapes from childhood kept playing in my head, reminding me of how worthless I truly am.  I should probably just quit my jobs, put the kids up for adoption, and move under a bridge somewhere so that I'm not a constant blight on organization and decency.

Did I mention that I can be quite the catastrophist? 

Someone stop me before I start mentioning the baby pictures I never labeled and how I can no longer remember which one of my kids is which.

Today, some grace appeared to interrupt my self-reproach.  Matt decided to go out for breakfast since we didn't have any cereal, I made the physical appointment that I'd been putting off, and I called my mom.  And don't tell anyone, but you can totally revive a red shirt from the dirty clothes hamper with some Febreze and a quick tumble in the clothes dryer.

Am I perfect?  No. 

Will we survive anyway?  Absolutely.