The Unfortunate Incident Involving the Neighbor, the Newspaper and an Onion

Motherhood has imbued me with a certain sense of entitlement that I’m not at all entitled to have.
When someone honks a horn at me because I accidentally weave out of my lane because I’m reaching behind my seat to shove a sippy cup in somebody’s mouth, I think, “Hey! I got three little kids here!”
When I leave the Starbucks table covered with crumbs and spilled milk, I think, “Gimme a break! I got three little kids!”
When I let my children watch three consecutive hours of SpongeBob Squarepants, I usually feel completely justified. “Hey!” I think. “I need a break! I got three little kids!”
So when I woke up last Saturday - or when the 2-year-old Tyrant poked me in the back at 6 a.m. wearing sunglasses and carrying a purse and saying she wanted to watch teebee - I felt reasonably okay about swiping the neighbor’s newspaper.
I did have to talk myself into it. It was an oversight, I thought. The paper guy skipped us, which isn’t really fair, and I’m the one up at 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning and I’m the one who needs the paper the most. I’m the one who has to watch insipid toddler shows. I deserved the paper. We paid for the paper. We’ll just pretend the paper guy skipped George’s house instead. Or maybe I’ll drink my coffee, read the paper, then fold it up and put it back in the green sleeve and throw it in their driveway. They always sleep late anyway (though we haven’t lived here long, and I really have no idea what time they get up).
But the morning got away from me as usual. The Diva wanted her waffles with the burnt part cut off. The Pterodactyl wanted his hot dog with the mustard squirted in a perfectly squiggly line. The Tyrant pooped on the floor. I mean, would they really want the paper back?
I had nearly succeeded in smothering the incident when Husband admitted to me that he had paid the bill late. We’d been cut off.
That changed everything. It was not an oversight at all. No unfairness. Just slackers.
I spent the entire day making up lies to cover my tracks. My daughter grabbed the wrong paper! The dog chewed it up! Weren’t there meteors in the area?
Oh, the guilt. It nibbled at me like a rat.
That night, we were having dinner guests. As I cooked, I realized I needed an onion.
I don’t really know the other neighbors well enough to borrow anything, so I sent the Diva over to Mr. George’s house, sort of hoping they wouldn’t be home, but they were, and she came back with an onion. My shame intensified.
“You must never, ever tell them,” says Husband. So I didn’t. But I posted about it on Facebook as a sort of confession. It didn’t go over well. “You’re an inveterate thief,” said Josh. “Stealing is stealing,” said Donna.
And now I can hardly look at their house any more. Over the past two days, I’ve baked them muffins, picked up dog poop from their yard (not even my dog’s), and complimented George’s wife Ann on her clothes. And I keep thinking, either they know, or they think I’m stalking them.
The good news is that my sense of entitlement has certainly been stifled, at least when it comes to stealing. Frankly, I just find the guilt too exhausting. But you should still avoid my table at Starbucks. Plus, now that I think about it, last time I was there, I took a newspaper. And I was by myself. But gimme a break after all. I got three kids...