Caught between who I was and who he needs
I’m learning as I go along that a huge part of motherhood is the accompanying “mom guilt.”
I often feel guilty for working full-time and being gone most of the day. And then, just when I think I should be okay with it, I feel guilty for wanting my career, for the fact that, deep down, I’d probably still choose to work even if staying home had been an option for me (it wasn’t). I wonder if I’m doing it wrong — if my son needs me more, if I should be more for him in a way I just can’t seem to figure out.
I often feel guilty that I enjoy spending time with friends, that I go to the movies, spend time at the gym, and use some of my free moments to read and write. In doing so, I take time away from my son, indulging in things that I need, which sometimes makes me feel like I’m failing as a mom. There are always thoughts in the back of my mind: Shouldn’t I be spending every second with him?
I often feel guilty that the mess that accompanies having children in the house drives me to the brink of insanity. Some days, I just want to grab a garbage bag, throw it all away, and restore my house to some sense of control, some sense of normalcy. I want to breathe in peace and quiet, but I know I’m supposed to be grateful for the chaos.
There are so many better moms than me. Moms who don’t feel these particular guilts because they don’t do these particular things or feel these particular feelings. Better moms… and I see them every day. The Pinterest moms who effortlessly craft and curate perfect birthday parties while I bake a hideous cake and order pizza.
The super moms who bring their kids to every library story time, while I sit behind the desk, watching them walk in, feeling a twinge of both jealousy and smugness.
The cooking moms who make homemade baby food, serve organic meals, and would never dream of using a bottle, while I pop a Pop Tart in the toaster, hand it to my son, and call it breakfast.
Some of these moms... they make it look so easy, so natural. I’ve never hidden the fact that nothing about this mothering gig has come naturally to me. Sure, it’s gotten easier as time goes on, but there’s a constant struggle. I lose patience with my son. I spend too much time on my phone, distracted by things that don’t matter in the long run. I resent playing on the floor, let him watch TV, and give him juice whenever he asks for it because, dammit, he won’t drink water.
Some moms seem to do it all so effortlessly, embracing selflessness like it’s second nature. I hear moms say that this is what they were meant for, that motherhood is their calling. But me? I’m over here thinking, “I was meant to nap, to read, to write, to be a librarian.” Those were the passions I always dreamed of. Those are the things that fill me with joy and excitement (I’ll admit, I do love a good nap).
I love my son with everything I have. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him. I provide for him in the best way I can. I sign him up for activities — soccer, swimming, music. I buy him the things he needs. I kiss him, hug him, tell him I love him every day. I teach him when I can — how to brush his teeth, to say “please” and “thank you” instead of shouting demands.
I’ve never regretted being his mom. In fact, being his mother is the greatest reward I’ve ever known. But I was never the little girl who dreamed of growing up to be a mom. I wanted other things. I wanted a career, adventure, autonomy. It’s not that I didn’t want kids, it’s just that motherhood was never my dream. I feel a pang of envy when I see other moms so naturally slipping into the role of selfless caretaker. I wonder what it would feel like to give up my “me” time, my “friend” time, my desires, and sacrifice it all for my kids. I haven’t quite reached that point — I don’t know if I ever will.
Don’t misunderstand me. I’d do anything for my son. He’s the best part of me now. I just struggle with how to be a mom. I still struggle with feeling selfish, with needing my own time, my own space. I often second-guess myself. Am I taking too much time for myself when I go to the movies? Should I feel guilty that I want to spend time with friends or that I need to read for my own sanity?
I’ve always taken pride in maintaining my identity, even after becoming a wife and a mother. I’ve always believed in staying true to myself and not losing who I am in the shuffle of family life. But even as I hold onto this belief, the guilt creeps in — it always does. The guilt that maybe I’m not doing this right... that maybe I’m not that “natural” mom. I see the supermoms, the ones who throw themselves so fully into motherhood that they lose sight of who they were before, and I long for that sense of purpose. But it’s just not who I am.
There are a lot of moms who seem like better moms to me. But I’m the one who knows my son. I’m the one who understands his quirks, his needs, his dislike of loud sounds. I’m the one who rubs his hair and watches him sleep, knowing all his favorite foods, songs, and how to make him laugh. I’m the one who carries him upstairs when he’s too tired or cranky to do it himself. I’m the one who puts him to bed, whispers “good night,” and sometimes sneaks back in to watch him sleep, marveling at his beauty. I’m the one he calls mommy, the one who teaches him not to hit (still a work in progress), the one who chose his preschool, his doctor, and advocates for his unique needs. I’m the one who loves him more than anything, who cries when I hear a song about moms, who tries every day to be what he needs, even if it doesn’t always feel like it comes naturally.
Maybe they’re not better moms than me, after all. Maybe they’re just different moms.
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