The Mommy-Guilt Phenomenon

Not so very long ago, I was having an in-depth chat with a former lawschool classmate during her baby's first birthday. Subject in question: mommy-hood. In particular, mommy-guilt.

What is it with us mommies? Why do we subject ourselves to an absurd amount of guilt for things not done and left undone.

For her, the guilt often came whenever she took time to have her nails done prior to a hearing in court ("Oh my poor baby, why did I leave her? I wonder if she's crying out for me right now"). Despite having fully breastfed her daughter, despite having stayed up late cooking, oesterizing and freezing three day's worth of personalized baby food, despite the sleepless nights and the backbreaking days trotting protectively after an early walker...she still felt guilty.

Why is this so? And why is this so universal among mommies alone? Where do the daddies figure in all this? Are they ever tormented by the guilt of parenting inadequacy?

The other night, I was helping Woog with his homework, trying to take it slow for his sake, and yet continually glancing up at the clock, hoping to finish before an hour was up, which from painful experience, is Woog's breaking point as far as homework is concerned. "We're running out of time, Woog," I finally warned, "so please concentrate."

Immediately, a wave of intense guilt washed over me. Why was I harassing my son? Wasn't it my job to guide him lovingly and patiently through this tiresome repetitious task which will occupy a fourth of his life for the next 14 to 16 years? What kind of a mother am I?

At the same time, I worried about Eli somewhere downstairs, either in the care of his nanny or snoozing in his stroller. I felt another twinge of guilt about not spending enough time with him. We hardly ever have time to read a book together before his bedtime rolls around. And feeling guilty about my inability to cellularly subdivide into several super mommies to accomplish everything somehow seemed like an appropriate emotion for the occasion.

I do not just feel guilty like this once a month, or once a week. I feel this way almost as often as I think of my sons. That compulsion to provide for one's children to the best of one's mothering abilities - from pregnancy to childbirth, from breastfeeding to nurturing, from teaching to supporting - and falling short of one's own expectations, is one hell of a lousy emotion to go through Every. Single. Day. And yet I still do feel this way. Apparently, so do most of the other mothers I interact with.

Yesterday, I was part of a support group that empathized with a fellow mommy co-worker, who sobbed in our collective arms about the problems she was having with her older son - a love-addled fellow who wouldn't quit stalking the girl of his dreams, said terrified girl having reported the incidents to her mother, his mother, and the police (!!!)

My co-worker cried, "What have I done wrong? Haven't I done everything I could to raise him right?"

Again, the guilt weights heavily on the mommy's heart.

Is it our pre-determined gender-ingrained roles that keep us feeling this way? Not so long ago, the daddies brought home the bacon. Now, most of us mommies do, too. Did the generations of women before our time, who stayed at home, kept the house and raised the children, ever feel this way? I may be extremely fortunate to be a working mom, and yet I am irrationally guilty about how this dual role limits the time I spend with my kids. Puzzle that conundrum out.

And the daddies? Today's fathers have taken an increasingly hands-on role in the raising of their children. My husband is one (and I am so insanely proud of him for that). But do they feel the same deep remorse after having spoken curtly to their children? Or spanked them, for that matter? Atch being Atch, simply takes everything in stride. For him, what's done is done. No going over and over the incident wishing he could've done things differently. Gently. Less abruptly.

Like a male co-worker who was talking excitedly the other week about the recent promotion he received. His dream job, he said. Said dream job requiring him to move to the mother office several regions away, relocating his wife (who happens to have a successful retail career here) and his daughter (who'd just gotten settled in school and formed her own circle of friends). Not one iota of guilt there. In his place, what would a mommy do?

I realize mommies today would need to ease up on their harsh expectations of themselves and come to terms with the reality of what they're capable of doing - and not doing. We're not out to raise serial killers or bank robbers or even stalkers. We're here to mother. And if our hearts are softer, more vulnerable and prone to guilt than most, then so be it. If we weren't made that way, there wouldn't be any mommies around at all.

Five years ago today, I held a baby up to the morning sunlight and marvelled at the tender and perfectly plump morsel of flesh yawning and quivering in my arms. How fair and fragrant. How rosy and robust. How soft and supple. I laid claim to all the poetic license my shellshocked mind could call forth after a harrowing three days of induced labor. Finally, he was mine to actually hold, all 7.11 pounds of him.

How eager I was to take him home with me and proudly show him off to the world. And so I did. Often the world avoided me, tired of my show-and-tell pride. How I hungered to cosset and cradle him for countless days and endless nights. The part about "endless nights" did come to pass, and at the end of ten months, the idea of sleep seemed truly alien.

I guided him and steadied him, overseeing every minute detail of his growth. I lectured him and hectored him. Sometimes lovingly, sometimes not, caught up in the compulsion to raise a superman. He thrived and he flourished. He laughed and shed tears. He had close-calls and near-misses. He received love and gave back a hundred-fold.

Five years later, he has become a noisy and hyperactive gangle of elbows and knees, knuckles and shins. Sometimes, I actually get to hold him. Most times, he is too busy living life. At other times, so am I.

We are so alike, my son and I. We struggle mightily to get up in the mornings, we sulk for terribly long periods of time (and often at each other), we growl and spit over imagined slights, and we are the sweetest creatures alive when sated and content.

On this, his fifth birthday, I planned on posting a letter to him, congratulating him on the milestones he hurdled, and the maturity he'd acquired through the years. Instead, I took him out for pizza, a movie and the "ar-cave". Serious quality mother and son time. He had the time of his life and my heart busily photographed each unfolding moment for posterity - enough memories to riffle through with fondness during tough times.

And we've had our tough times, pitting like against like, snarling and circling like pit bulls in a pen. On the night of his fifth birthday, he loudly grouched about the lack of guests (we invited his grandparents, an aunt, an uncle and a cousin from next door), the lack of food (we had cake, ice cream, fried oriental noodles, roast chicken and lechon), and the lack of presents (he got a Barney sticker book). I tried to keep my temper in, mightily helped by warning glances from Atch until the birthday boy reached out with a grimy finger and dug a deep furrow into the cake. Chaos ensued, chiefly instigated by me. I ended the evening with an angry lecture on table etiquette and the importance of being grateful for small blessings. Then I sent him to the sink to wash his own mug and spoon.

On his birthday. On his birthday. On his birthday.


As with every parent who desires the best for her child but falls short on her own expectations, guilt hit hard and fast. But as he came to kiss me goodnight, he assured me he had a great birthday, "I had fun, Mom. This big (holding his hands a foot wide), and the bad parts were only this small (holding his hands apart an inch)."



How much can this wicked unfeeling weak inconsiderate mother take, to be so blessed with such a marvelously forgiving and loving son, who couldn't help but act his age, and then some. I wept.


Happy birthday, Woog. Hopefully someday, you will understand what I mean.