I am THE worst mom in the whole freakin’ world, according to the evidence.  If you work in retail support, as I do, this time of year is IN – SANE.  Freakishly insane.  Crazy, insomnia-inducing, working 80 hours a week, never home, living on fast food, forgetting what your husband looks like and ignoring your friends bonkers.  For Jeebus’ sake, it took me four days to put away the laundry and my bathroom has an odor that is reminiscent of a frat house toilet the Sunday after Rush Week.

So when I got the third email in 10 days from Tim’s caseworker asking, “when will you be able to come up for a visit?” I was irritated for 45 seconds, then guilty for five hours and counting.  It has been three weeks.  I talk to him on the phone at least twice a week, but over the summer, when things were slower and schedules were easier to, well, schedule, we got up there every other week.  She’s asking because Tim is badgering the poor woman with questions, daily, about when his next visit will be.  Soon.  I swear.  I miss him.  I just don’t have time to breathe, let alone drive four hours round trip.  I wish they had web cam.