Mother's Guilt

A healthy dose of mother’s guilt keeps me on my toes. Instead of feeling complacent with the time and activities I spend with my kids, the guilt inspires me to come up with new ways of interacting with them.

Mother’s guilt comes in many shapes and sizes. Am I under feeding the kids? Are they getting too much junk food and TV? Should I encourage them to make more friends? Am I pushing them too hard to be athletes, pick activities, be responsible? Do they have enough kid time? Are they over/under stimulated? He sneezed and coughed twice in row, is it time to see the doctor? Are my habits going to lead them into OCD [e.g. asking if they’ve washed their hands regularly—then again, I have boys. They need to be reminded.]? Do I spend enough time with them?

For me personally, it’s the time issue. My daily balancing act on life’s precipitous tightrope is divided by my full time job, two kids, husband, and writing books. I’m plagued by worries of my children seeking counseling 20 years from now explaining to their psychiatrists, “Well, if only mommy would’ve spent more time with me…”

Managing one child was easy. Every spare minute was focused on his needs. At one week old, I’d prop him in my lap and read to him. By two months old, he’d sit for 20 to 30 minutes smacking the pages as I read, effectively telling me which stories he wanted to hear again by complaining until I turned to the ones he wanted. I took him to Gymboree, kids activities in town, and enrolled him in toddler sports. He knew his ABCs and how to count by the time he started preschool. During holidays, he’d help decorate and bake. And I felt like a failure, because, despite the time we had together, more often than not, he came second to my job.

Then baby number two came along.

Having thought I was a bad parent before, now I was the worst parent ever. Baby number one sacrificed mommy time because of baby number two’s more urgent needs and Mommy’s lack of energy. Baby number two never got the reading time alone or the mommy and baby activities around town. Mommy-time focused on doing errands and chores together.

Baby number two started preschool today. He knows most of his alphabet thanks to his big brother and he can count to ten. Not too shabby, but I wonder what he’d be capable of if I would’ve spent more time with him in his first three years.

When I was a teenager, I was determined to be a successful career woman, wife, and mom. I wanted it all. I got it all. The juggling of priorities and sacrifices of each goal were things I didn’t anticipate. It’s easy to say and believe that family comes first. It should come first. Everything we say and do as parents shapes our children’s futures. What kind of message are we sending if we’re too busy to spend time with them? I don’t want my children pushing my grandchildren away because of their jobs or hobbies.

Still, there’s a fine line between wanting to be the “perfect” parent and losing ourselves in “mommyhood.”

When I became a parent, I gave up everything that defined me at the time. Concerts. Date nights. Trips. Reading. Arts & crafts. Sure I missed these things, but my kids far outweighed the sense of loss.

The years melted into one another and each season seemed to whirl by faster. One day I crashed into the wall of reality. I was “wife,” “mommy,” and “employee.” “Andrea” was gone.

In living for everyone else and striving to do my best for my husband, kids, and job, I stopped doing anything for me. I equated “me” time and money spent on myself with selfishness and ended up being only half the person I wanted to be for everyone. I was no more than the titles.

Once I started writing again last year, I rediscovered my passion. I feel alive. Whether anyone else thinks my book is good or just plain sucks is irrelevant. It gave me the creative outlet I missed for over a decade. Even if the books never see the light of day, I know what I was able to accomplish. I’m a happier person for having completed something I’ve always wanted to do. As a result, I’m a better wife, mom, and employee.

The balancing act continues to teeter. Now that I’ve added a new hobby to my daily routine, I’ve had to carve time from an already insane schedule. I’ve given up sleeping. (I can rest when I’m dead.) I’m trying to include my kids in some of my everyday tasks more often. Cooking dinner, cleaning, or dancing/exercising together might not be great bonding experiences, but they teach responsibility and give us a chance to talk about our day’s events. My new goal is to reinstate Mommy & Me reading every night with each child. I wonder who they’ll pick: Mommy or the TV…

The mother’s guilt keeps pushing me to achieve my goals so my kids can learn from my example: don’t give up on your dreams, you can have it all. You just need to make it happen.