Guilt, guilt, and more guilt.

Oh my, am I ever fired up. Fired up but good! You'll have to go to Wonderland to find out why.

In other news, my son, Henry—perhaps you've heard me mention his name here before—he's at preschool right now. On Friday, school lets out at 12:30. But his school provides this lovely aftercare option, wherein you can leave your child to fingerpaint and cavort and pee in his pants and all those activities that preschoolers enjoy. Aftercare continues until five p.m. It's cheap. It's awesome.

Now, I work. I have projects, and deadlines, and I make (a little) money, and so forth. Ending my work day at 12:15 simply does not cut it, in terms of Getting Things Done. Meanwhile, aftercare, to Henry, is a tiny wedge of heaven—a place where he gets to play with all the Legos a Lego addict like himself could wish for. If I don't leave him in aftercare, he's angry with me. When I pick him up, he begs to say for another few minutes.

I need it. Henry loves it. But—can you see where this is going?—leaving him there fills me with guilt. FILLS. I am guilt-soaked. I am marinating in it. No, I'm macerated by guilt, and covered in a lovely sage-infused guilt reduction. But why? Why, my friends? Am I trained to feel inadequate, no matter which decisions I choose? Because you can bet that if I picked him up at 12:30 and he wanted to stay, I'd feel you-know-what.

Oh, but this is all such a cliché. Hi, I'm a cliché! I'm steps away from this, except without the laughs: