It's 7 AM on a Saturday. My cell phone rings. It's my best friend. I consider ignoring. My daughter isn't even awake yet. This feels like a sin.

Before I can even say hello, she's crying into the phone, "BRODY JUST ATE MY DEODORANT!"

"Was it organic?" my eyes are still shut.

"Do I really need to re-live this humiliation? My son has ingested Arrid Extra Dry Shower Fresh deodorant and is asking for more!"

I couldn't help but ask the obvious, "Is he sweating?"

"I just spent two hours on the phone with poison control because I've POISONED my son! I am the worst, WORST mom."

And just like that, my best friend had officially become a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad mom. This, of course, was a title that I had recently claimed after my daughter somersaulted off the kitchen counter weeks before; a day I will never, ever forgive myself for.

In both instances, however, it was the moms who struggled most with the trauma. Minutes later, Brody was back at work in the medicine cabinet, while my daughter searched for an indoor set of monkey bars. But for us, our children were put in harm's way and we were the only ones to blame.

The tears were endless. Ours, that is. The guilt ensued for days. We had no choice but to wear the scarlet letter of motherhood and ban ourselves from watching the Kardashians for weeks. Fast forward to five years from now when our kids skip the number 8 when asked to count to 10, we would know exactly why. Antiperspirant and a front handspring.

Minutes after I became the worst, WORST mom, I called my own parents in hysterics. Frustrated by their non-reactive reactions, they went on to tell me stories about the time I fell off the bed, tumbled out of the stroller, slipped on the slide, etc. It was as though my parental crime was hardly impressive and more of a misdemeanor. I quickly hung up the phone and called my brother in search of compassion. He, however, couldn't talk because his son had just rolled off the changing table.

I felt a feeling of desperation, like I immediately needed to connect with someone who also felt this indescribable feeling of shame. I began to look around at mothers of toddlers, of teenagers, of grown adults. God only knows how many bumps and bruises they'd witnessed. Was this my final initiation into the world of parenting? I could have sworn I was inducted after I let her cry it out.

In the weeks to follow, Brody went on to explore his passion for personal hygiene products and applied for a job at Unilever. As for my daughter, she will be competing as an acrobat in the 2014 Winter Olympics. And their moms? Well, the shame eventually wore off, the guilt dissipated, and the scarlet letter washed out. A few glasses of wine and a touch of Arrid Extra Dry did the trick.