The waiting is the hardest part...

I just went to the restroom and, during that brief respite from work, could no longer bury myself in the paperwork that covers my desk. I began to think of Zozer, and wonder how she's doing, and imagined her wailing in a small, bare bathroom at school. While her friends and teachers gleefully eat two dozen moon doughnuts purchased in her honor.

And that's when Mother's Guilt set in.

Maybe I should have taken the day off work and done this myself. (Which would have resulted in both of us crying, I'm sure, and not much progress forward.)

Maybe I should just say, "She'll go when she goes" and not push it. (Although if I have to change one more poopy diaper I'm going to scream.)

Maybe I should have worked with her more yesterday. (I didn't because I didn't want memories of her fourth birthday to be all jacked up with terrifying potty nightmares. Birthdays are supposed to be fun.)

Maybe if I had done things differently before now, I wouldn't be going to the bathroom worried about Zoe going to the bathroom. (I'm not sure what I'd have done differently, but, you know. Something.)

I keep pulling the phone number for Zoe's school up in my Outlook contacts list. And the cursor sits there, blinking at me, waiting for me to make a decision. Do I call and see how she's doing? And if she's not doing well, then what? I sit here and cry knowing she's sitting there crying. "Well, she's been in the bathroom since 8:15 this morning, but we have hope she might get hungry enough to come out soon." I'm killing myself here. Slowly.

But I don't want to be one of those parents who calls all the time and annoys teachers who are busy enough keeping a small band of savages from creaming each other with moon doughnuts.

It's 12:30. I have four hours until I can fly out of here to go pick her up.

Tick. Tick. Tick.