And all this worrying is probably bad for your poor kid, too.

My friends are always telling me about being embarrassed about running out of some kind of important food, and having to eat Pop Tarts for dinner or something. (That one really did happen, and it was to a very good mommy.) I run out of stuff, too, which is inexcusable since I live two measly blocks from an open-twenty-four-hour grocery store. My Bad Mommy food anxiety is more subtle than this, though. I'm not afraid of my son telling the world about how we ran out of milk and had to have something weird for breakfast. I'm worried that after years of conscientiously buying the milk, pouring the milk, and telling him to finish the milk, scientists will find out that long-term consumption of cow's milk leads to stupidity, hemorrhoids, cancer of the pinky toe, or something equally horrible. And then he'll blame me. You know, the way I blame my parents for not strapping me into a car seat, putting a bicycle helmet on me, smoking indoors, packing kids five to a backseat and the heck with the seatbelts, etc.