I thought I had myself together yesterday. I’d gotten my daughter off to kindergarten early, my son fed and dressed, and myself in my work-out clothes and out the door by 8:45 a.m. I JUST made it to the 9 a.m. weights class (alas, after dropping off my fake-crying son in the kids’ room) with a sigh of ,”Whew, I can do this. I can carve out time for myself AND feed my children AND remember my daughter’s P.E. water bottle AND pack a bag with my work clothes in it. I can do it ALL!”

I walk around with a lot of mama guilt. Perhaps it comes from my genetic code–we Jewish mothers are known for inflicting guilt upon our children (i.e. “Honey, why aren’t you coming home for Rosh Hashanah? Don’t you know it’s the New Year? It’s giving me heart palpitations as we speak.”). But no, I’m not pushing this guilt ONTO my children, the one feeling the guilt is dear old me.

I used to want to be a back-up singer for Madonna. This was, I recall, during her Blonde Ambition tour. I could just picture myself, blonde hair slicked back into a high ponytail, pointy boobs galore, strutting around stage behind Madonna, singing the chorus for “La Isla Bonita.”