I don’t remember exactly what set me off the first time it happened. But I remember how it felt.
I had just brought home our second daughter after a harrowing pregnancy, birth, and NICU stay. I felt completely guilty sending my 20-month-old to daycare the next day while I was at home lavishing attention on the new baby. My 40th birthday was coming up and I was already disappointed that I chose to let it pass without fanfare—not that I wanted fanfare, mind you. I was much too stressed and exhausted for fanfare.
And then something small happened. Maybe I couldn’t find the last clean preemie onesie. Maybe I forgot to run the dishwasher. Maybe we ran out of coffee.
Whatever it was, it stopped me in my tracks.