I haven’t blogged in a while. Mostly because I don’t have the time, but also partly because I always want to post something “worth while,” ie, informative, inspiring or just plain cool. I’ve realized however, by not blogging, I’m not documenting my life very well. Because I don’t journal anymore now that I have a blog. But if I don’t blog about every day things…I think you get my point. So enough is enough, it’s time to start blogging! Sharing! Getting this sh*t out of my system.
Tonight’s topic: Mom Guilt.
Truth be told, I never really experienced Mom Guilt until after Lucan was born. It came on fast and furious.
It started with the obvious: I could no longer pay attention to Ella all day long, each and every day.
I simply couldn’t, not like before he was born. There she was, standing in front of me asking me to dance and I couldn’t. And she didn’t understand why. That was hard. She was a trooper about it though. Her tears were few. I asked her to dance for me. Told her I would watch and so she did. I told her she was beautiful while my heart broke with sadness and pride for my little girl.
But the real Mom Guilt has come in a form I am not so proud to share.
I realized I must share this while discussing the issue with fellow moms at the La Leche League meeting this morning. It is something, we found out, very common for mothers with children less than three years apart – specifically during the second child’s newborn stage.
When our older child acts out we feel:
Anger. Rage. Complete frustration. Complete lack of patience. Monsters, we become – completely unrecognizable to our former selves.
Because they should know better.
They are older. They should understand why you don’t want them to throw the quinoa all over the floor after you politely and calmly ask them not to.
So we yell. We scold. In the heat of the moment we say things we wish we could take back. We give looks that we wish we could take back. It’s a tone.
I’ve had those moments. And the guilt is crushing.
I forget that my sweet Ella Rose is still only two and a half years old. She looks seven years old compared to her seven week old brother. She is still a baby. She doesn’t understand.
What she does understand though, is love.
It is the one thing that heals wounds. I hold my little girl and apologize for my harsh words. I tell her the way I spoke to her wasn’t nice. We hug. And when she sighs and says, “all better now,” I feel a bit of hope, trying not to replay the scene over and over again in my mind. I believe her – that she really means it. That I haven’t done lasting damage.
I hope not.