Tamarah Rockwood

My brain seems to have stopped functioning at its full capacity, and I am simply going through the motions of loading the car and unloading the car at this point. Kids? Check. Purse? Check. Shoes? Check. Towels? Purely optional. Sunblock? Check.

The truth is, my kids are not going to grow a deeper character thanks to perfect floors. Granted, it will make life easier for me, no doubt: there are few things that make my stomach drop than walking into a room that I just cleaned, and seeing a spoonful of peanut butter just sitting on the floor (I have an accomplished toddler). Peanut butter on the floor, or on the counter, or on the tablecloth — or anywhere other than on a piece of bread — is frustrating.

And there are some things missing in my life. Things I was promised on The Jetsons, by Jane Jetson herself. Man, I watched that show and saw the future! That’s where we were headed, my friends. Flying cars were part of the package of the future.

"If I am holding an amber beer in my hand, I am not talking about naptimes. If I hear shop from your lips, I am ordering you three more martinis and getting you shitfaced..."

My reality has to include social anxiety, because I have had social anxiety for as long as I can remember. School programs, football stadiums, parades, large parties . . . hell, even small parties. I would rather not. To the point that I will simply not attend. Not because I can’t handle it; I can. I just don’t enjoy the crowds, and I don’t enjoy my reaction to the crowds. I get bitchy and impatient, mostly with myself, and I actually don’t like being bitchy and impatient.

Don’t say the following: “Maybe they’ll remember me!” “I bet they would love to get a message from me!” “Contacting the popular kids while we are in our 30s is a fantastic idea and doesn’t look desperate at all!”

"So, Hollywood's perfect couple is not just having a conscious uncoupling ... they are going the traditional route with a full divorce."

I worry about the food I give them. I worry about the clothes we have for them. I stress over the amount of time I spend with them . . . or don’t spend with them. When is it enough, and when is it overpowering?

What I am not saying: "I am now going to take this opportunity to rub in your face what an inadequate parent you are for not sacrificing your entire life to homeschool your children, who you obviously don't love."

I know sending kids to school is the most normal thing on earth. I know they are going to do great, and I know they are going to flourish. And I know it is only twice a week, and I am still the teacher the rest of the time.