Mommy Guilt.
Let’s talk about that for a minute, okay.
Like how I seriously despise going to the park.
But for some reason, admitting this fact gives me guilt.
As if admittance to my lack of excitement to have sand in my shoes,
get stuck in the tube slide, and experience sweat dripping down my back
somehow makes me a bad mom.
And then there’s the other kind of guilt.
The guilt I feel when I’m having a bad day.
Like yesterday.
Yesterday Baby W misbehaved in more ways than I can count.
Terrible twos doesn’t even begin to cover his behavior all day.
Food was thrown and mutilated,
furniture became a jungle gym,
diapers were ripped off,
poo was touched,
toys were thrown from moving vehicles,
and piercing shrieks were heard by the entire neighborhood.
But I stayed positive,
because that’s my new goal as a Momma.
To brush off the things that don’t matter.
To remind myself that this too shall pass.
To focus on his milestones, rather than his meltdowns.
I even devoted more of my energy to catering to his whims.
My “list” was ignored
as I spent the day building with blocks,
playing in the hose outside,
and singing Elmo’s world
over and over
and over.
Maybe he just needs some extra quality Momma time today,
I told myself.
So I smiled and made the best of his horrid behavior.
But then,
that night he did something so terrible
so horrible, so unforgivable {if he weren’t my pride and joy},
that I couldn’t keep the smile on my face any longer.
He took my brand new
iPhone 4
and he threw it in the toilet.
And you know what…
He knew exactly what he was doing.
I could see it on his face.
The look that said,
Well, what are you gonna do now?
Did I break you yet, Momma?
And he had.
I snapped.
WESLEY, WHAT did you do?!!!!
I snatched him up and put him in his “time out” area,
(an area he has yet to understand)
and proceeded to tell him just how bad his behavior was.
Of course I used toddler language.
Things like bad boy.
Mommy is very upset.
You are in big trouble.
That is not okay.
You are in time out now.
I even gave his hands one of those little slaps that
says I will never hurt you, but you need to know that I am serious.
He didn’t shed a tear,
and refused to make eye contact–proof he inherited the stubborn gene.
I told his Dad to come talk to him,
then I walked into the other room
took a deep breath
and I cried.
For over an hour.
Crying turned into sobbing,
which turned into swollen eyes, slimy nose
and my ugly dog face.
It was a bit ridiculous.
But we all need a good cry every now and then.
You see, it wasn’t about the iPhone,
although that made me sick to my stomach.
It was about what Baby W’s actions represented.
What his pure defiance said about my skills as a Momma.
And some of you may try to tell me
that a 2 year old can’t possibly understand what he did.
But I know my kid,
and TRUST me,
he knew.
And that broke my heart.
Just when I had run out of tears,
I could hear my little man in the other room with his Dad.
Momma, Momma–peas peas {please please}.
He wanted to say he was sorry.
So I let him,
in the most adorable way he knows how.
Kiss Kiss, he said.
And he wrapped his little arms around me,
gave me a kiss on the lips
and went to sleep.
Me: Why do I feel like I’m doing a terrible job?
Hub: You’re doing an amazing job, he’s just difficult.
Me: That doesn’t help. Why won’t he listen to a word I say?
Hub: I don’t really know. He’s never been easy.
Me: But why does it have to be so hard.
And then I stopped myself right there,
and allowed the other kind of guilt to set in.
The kind of guilt that doesn’t let a Momma ever feel sorry for herself.
The kind of guilt that tells you to suck it up.
The kind of guilt that tells you, you have no right to complain.
When I feel this guilt,
I always run through the same conversation with myself
{in my head of course}:
What right do I have to complain–I only have ONE kid!
What about Momma’s with multiples…
Or single Momma’s…
Or Momma’s with husbands that are away all the time…
Or worse…What about Momma’s that have children who have a medical condition.
Or with disabilities…
What right do I have to complain.
They have it harder than I can even fathom.
And then I kick my own butt,
tell myself to snap out of it,
and I suppress the stress and anxiety I am feeling,
because I have no right to feel this way, right?!
Last night, for the first time
I attempted to explain this feeling of guilt to my husband.
Me: I should be grateful. I should be counting my blessings, instead of complaining.
Hub: You do count your blessings. You are grateful, you say so every day.
Me: But I should have some perspective. In the scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter that my brand new, very expensive phone no longer works. What if he were sick, and in the hospital–now that’s something worth dwelling on. My concerns are so trivial…I shouldn’t ever feel frustrated, I have it easy.
And then the husband said something so simple, yet it was just what I needed to hear.
He even used his slow soft spoken voice,
the one that tells me he really means what he’s about to say.
Hub: Even Momma’s of kiddos who have a medical condition would get upset if their kid threw their new cell phone in the toilet.
Me: You think so? Said in my rarely used, soft spoken voice.
Hub: Yeah, I think so.
And at that moment, I felt a little less guilty.
I wrapped my arms around the hubs,
gave him a kiss, kiss
and went to sleep.
