Oh the Guilt

There is so much information out there on how to have a perfect baby: books, magazines, internet articles, unsolicited advice givers.

I don’t mean that as a good thing.

It is all just too much and much too confusing. No one source seems to agree with anyone else. Never pick up a crying baby, one source says, they must learn to calm themselves or they will never sleep. Always pick up a crying baby, says the next source, what are you? Heartless?

At this point in my mom career, I feel as though everyone else is an expert and I am woefully unprepared to be in charge of a tiny human. But honestly! All you professional baby people – pull yourselves together! Why the conflicting advice?

I could just trust my motherly instincts but I do not seem to have a significant amount. If I just knew, deep in my soul, what makes babies happy, would I be reading your thoughts?? No! I would be napping! But the more I read the more I have this vague sense of guilt every time I do absolutely anything because according to somebody, I am doing it wrong.

Guilt is a huge part of my life right now. There’s a lot riding on my ability to parent well. I feel an acute sense of responsibility for three kids to achieve all they possibly can and I so often fail to be helpful in any regard. I should be spending more time helping Gabriel with his math and English. But 7^th grade math is beyond my skill set and the baby is fussy; it’s so hard to concentrate on common verbs and their pronunciation.

Guilt.

I should be spending more quality girl time with Juli. She has no mother and needs to learn about womanhood with all its challenges and joys. But I am exhausted and I would so prefer to spend any spare time I happen to rummage up in the bath tub.

Guilt.

Everyone tells me how hard it is to leave my sweet little baby in daycare but the truth is, sometimes it’s downright easy – particularly after he has done a giant poop in my arms as we’re walking to the car.

Guilt.

I really like my job. I don’t want to stay home. I tried being a stay-at-homer in Nicaragua for nearly a year and sure, I didn’t have any kids at the time, but I really hated it. Yet none of the mothers I know that I think are exceptionally great at mom-ing work significant amounts of time outside the home. They seem so fulfilled; their children look so happy. Why does it sound so horribly boring to me? Seriously, what is wrong with me? Do I love my kids less?

Crushing guilt.

So I may not be an awesome mother or even a good one but I do know that I am not a terrible mom either because all my kids continue to be alive and no one’s in rehab or on the pole. And I get up early on the weekends to make tortillas for breakfast. Also, I’m getting pretty darn good at calming Captain Colic, which makes me feel like a rock star.  

And for the record, I always pick him up when he cries. He really just has no capacity to calm himself. And despite my fears that the book might be right and I’m spoiling him into terrorizing our nights for months to come, he slept for six straight hours last night. Thank you very much. 

A happy little burrito