Mom Guilt

Every time I put my child down, I feel it.

A twinge. A prick. A knot.

Every time I leave her with my husband for 30 minutes just to go to the grocery store, I feel it.

A twinge. A prick. A knot.

Every time I hear her stir in her sleep, and I don't immediately swoop her up in my arms, I feel it.

A twinge. A prick. A knot.

Every time I drop her off with a much beloved and trusted friend for one single hour, three afternoons a week, so I can teach a spinning class, I feel it.

A twinge. A prick. A knot.

It's guilt.

Plain-jane, old-hat guilt.

I don't know why I feel it. I can't explain it.

After all, my girl likes to sit up and play with her toys and scoot about the floor. She's perfectly happy with my husband and my friend for short periods of time. And nine times out of 10, her bed-time stirrings are hardly anything more than a snort then back off to sleep she goes.

And, yet, I feel it.

The all-consuming, overwhelming guilt.

That guilt that has me living in the world of what-ifs: What if she thinks I've abandoned her? What if she doesn't know how much I love her? What if she resents me for this later?

What if she needs me?

The truth of the matter is, I do everything for my child. I play with her, nurse her, put her to sleep, and, when she wakes up, sleep with her.

I don't mind it; I like it. Thanks to the good, old U.S. of A., and my husband's service to it, I don't really have a choice, anyway.

But that dependence I've created; that need she has to turn to me for everything? Well, it's scary.

Because sometimes, I can't be there. Sometimes, I have to do something else. Sometimes, my daughter will have to be in the care of someone other than her mother.

Two weeks ago, after discussing some routine dental work I had to get done in January, I cried on the phone with my mom. Because I didn't want to go. Because I didn't want to leave my daughter for those few hours at the dentist.

Six months later, I still sometimes pull the car over when she's screaming her head off for me. Because I can't take the thought of her back there, yelling for help, and me not stopping to get to her.

And if I don't? If I just keep driving because we're so close to home or because I know she's simply over-tired? I feel it.

A twinge. A prick. A knot.

At night, when I say a prayer, I always start with, "Lord, please let me daughter know how much I love her." Because I worry every day that she doesn't fully grasp this. That she doesn't feel it.

It's a twinge. A prick. A knot.

The guilt. The ever-present guilt that comes over me because I have done this, that, whatever it is, to my child.

I apologize to her when we go to Target, the grocery store, the bank. I know these aren't fun outings for a baby, and I always feel as if I'd be better off spending that time at home with her, reading books and playing with blocks and practicing our crawling exercises.

We rarely go out to eat at night because her bed-time is so early, and I simply feel it's unfair to make her suffer so we can eat at the new, local dive.

It's the guilt. It's all because of the guilt.

I find myself crying when I change her diaper. Out of the sheer, overwhelming nature of my love for her. Her smiles and laughs and full-body baby gestures bring tears to my eyes, as well.

My heart bursts for this little girl.

But I worry. Oh, how I worry.

I worry I'll disappoint her. That she'll be ashamed of me. That she'll look and question my motives.

I worry that I'm not good enough for her.

The realization that she's all mine - that she'll turn to me one day and say, "Hey, Mom!" hits me over and over and over again.

But the realization that I am a mother? That still feels surreal.

Right now, I just know that the underlying worries never go away. That nothing I have ever done has felt so daunting and so deliberate and so teetering as motherhood.

I almost find myself looking around and waiting for someone to pop up and tell me I'm doing it wrong. To look at me and go, "You're not cut out of this."

Ella makes me happy every day. And that happiness she gives me? Well, I just hope and pray I can give one-tenth of it back to her.

Someone once described it to me as being selfless.

"Motherhood is true selflessness;" I think that was the phrase.

And, yet, that's not a full enough description.

Motherhood is the all-encompassing feeling that you cannot be selfless enough. That everything you eat, drink, do or don't do, say or don't say, use or don't use, will somehow, in some way, affect your child.

In other words, it's a twinge. A prick. A knot.

Even if there's no good reason for it, it's the guilt.

***

I think Mom Guilt is exactly why so many of us struggle with the very issue I described yesterday, i.e., having another child.

Our very nature has us making decisions in the best interest of our child from the moment they come out of the womb. They are always in our mind's eye. After they are born, nothing we do will not be prefaced by a thought of, "But what about the baby?"

It hurts. It's a good pain, most of the time. It's born out of love, after all.

But it hurts.

And sometimes, in weak moments, it wounds. It pounces on us with uncertainty and makes us feel unworthy. It makes us feel alone. It makes us feel like we're failing. That our children will look back one day with disappointment or, worse yet, apathy.

It's a twinge. A prick. A knot.

It's Mom Guilt.

***

Continuing on tomorrow with my mini-series on mommy-hood. Yesterday's post is here.

Happy Tuesday, everyone!