Dear Fellow Moms:
Look, I know there is plenty of guilt to go around. People (including other moms) pass judgment on moms all the time. Working moms vs. stay-at-home moms and all that jazz.
Whatever.
The truth is that we all make decisions that are right for us. No one else’s decision is going to work.
Now we have to stop feeling guilty about these decisions. We need to stop feeling guilty about a whole bunch of stuff.
We also need to talk about it. We need to hear the terrible things other people think and feel so that we don’t feel so guilty and so alone.
Today, I’m letting go.
I’m going to tell the truth about what is in my nasty, shriveled heart. There’s only one thing I want you to remember: I really do love my husband and kids. (OK, two things: I’m also a generally happy person.)
Forgive me, People, for I have sinned. It has been a while since my last (official) confession. These are my sins:
- Though I never (for real) regret getting married and having kids, sometimes I’m jealous of single people and people without kids. I miss sleeping late. I miss spontaneity. I miss being able to go to an R-rated movie without scrambling for a trustworthy sitter who won’t cause my children nightmares and/or expensive therapy.
- Unless there is obvious hemorrhaging or a bone sticking out of the skin, I cannot muster up any concern or sympathy for injuries earned while doing something stupid.
- During the summer, I put the kids in camp. Every day. Yes, I have a new job and I can’t take much time off, but I would put them in camp anyway. I really like working and I don’t have the patience or desire to be a stay-at-home mom. Meanwhile, they are thrilled to be at art camp, skate camp, whining-about-imaginary-ailments camp, killing-your-parents-with-your-sound-effects camp, etc.
- I have a heart-soaring moment of glee when I drop them off at camp. The words, “I’m free” ring out through my evil brain. Often, the words come in the form of the melody from “The Who’s Tommy.” Sometimes it’s just the screaming banshee of freedom.
- I wait until the last possible moment to pick them up. I lick clean the plate of alone-time.
- I would rather allow the boys to spend two hours killing sheep with lava in Minecraft than spend two minutes doing some kind of craft project with them. I hate craft projects. I hate the words, “Mama, can we do a project?”
I hate all the clay crap that comes home with them from art camp.As someone who is not a fine artist, I am overwhelmed by the sheer number of splendid artistic creations lovingly made during art camp. - I kicked Dominic’s remote-controlled rattlesnake so hard it broke in two. Why? Because he drove that thing in the kitchen again after I had warned him not to do it.
- I want to follow through on my threat to throw out the things they don’t put away, if only to rid the house of some of the clutter.
- Sometimes I can’t wait until it is their bedtime. Then, when they are asleep and the house is blissfully quiet, I check on them. I kiss their cool, little-boy foreheads. I hear them breathe deeply and watch them sleep the sleep of the all-played-out. I am filled nearly to knocked-over with love. I vow to be better. I promise I’ll be more patient. I insist that I’ll create a life-size replica of the Sphinx with them in our backyard as a craft project. And then I forget all that in the morning during my first blinding rage of the day when they are fighting over who gets to open the new box of cereal.
- Sometimes the word “Mama” makes me want to drive sharp No. 2 pencils in my ears so I never have to hear it again.* It’s because some crazy request usually follows the word. (See No. 6.) Lately, I’ve been saying “No” as soon as I hear, “Mama, can you …” I tell myself that I am teaching them how to be self-sufficient. Really it is because I am JUST. SO. TIRED. I don’t have the energy to get them a drink or a snack/untie a knot/put their towels back up/twist off the cap/charge the battery/unstick the Legos/fix the airplane/find the foam dart in the tree, etc. I’m tired. I just want peace.
- I cannot do it all. I can do one thing at a time well, but not all things at all times. If I am being the best mother, then I am sucking at being a wife or an employee. Or maybe I don’t suck and I’m worrying for nothing. And then I suck for wasting time worrying.
I’m often teetering over the pit of despair because I think I am a horrible person. Then I read pieces like this, and I think, “I am normal.”
It’s now my mantra.
To all of you moms out there, let it out. Confess your sins. I won’t judge.
Yours in solidarity,
Beth
* That’s hyperbole, of course. Don’t call someone on my behalf.
