My kid is a brat.

Since the time my child was about two — which is when, for me, actual parenting started to happen — I’ve said the same thing. If the universe could do you a solid and just give you an envelope when your kid was born, everything would be so much simpler.

Not just an empty envelope, but one containing a small piece of paper with a single word written on it: yes or no. As in, Yes. Your child is a psycho/sociopath. Or No. Your child is just an asshole. Without this envelope, this little piece of personality insurance, my experience has been that you spend almost every waking minute that you’re parenting wondering, Is this a phase? Am I a bad parent? Or, of course, Is my kid going to grow up to be the Unibomber?

Let me tell you, it’s hard to shake that Unibomber stuff.

Let’s start with the backstory. I’m an over-thinking, over-compensating, over-anxious parent. I’m a working mom, which means I am failing full time at half of what I’m doing.

No, I can’t help run the bake sale at the school.

No I can’t join a book club that meets at 10AM on Tuesdays.

No I can’t be anywhere, ever, for anything that starts at 5PM.

No I can’t make a 7:30AM meeting.

No I can’t “just hop on this call really quick” at 6PM.

And no, I don’t think we should try to do team drinks at least once a week.

(But really on this last one. I think even if I were childless and drowning in…