
I have a fuzzy memory from when I was about 23 or so, sitting at a breakfast restaurant, eyeing the table next to me where a family of five was trying to eat together. There was the mom and dad, of course, and three unruly toddlers. I still remember the misplaced disdain that washed through me as I watched the scene unfold. Mom and Dad were desperately trying to get their kids to eat something—pancakes?—and the kiddos were making a giant mess of syrup and spilled milk. I sat at my own quiet table, full of haughty pride, thinking, “My children will never be like that. Surely not.”
This is me, right now, eating my humble pie.
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