Spooky Mommy Guilt

III hII have this constant companion.


It lurks.


It stalks.


It hides in shadows...


waiting for me to mess up.


It doesn't wait long.


Then - 
it jumps.
Right onto my back, like a little evil troll.  It grabs my hair and wraps it's legs around my waist and no matter how I jump around and spin, the little troll will not get off.


It's my Mommy Guilt.


I'd like to smash it with a hammer, roll it up in a burlap bag, and then go bury it in my garden were it can compost and do some good.


I think I may have mentioned before that I am just a little, just a tad, a bit, a smidgen, idealistic.


In the world in my delusional head, it's a constant running episode of The Waltons mixed with a little Little House on the Prairie, with a pinch of the Swiss Family Robinson thrown in for adventure (and for the tree houses).  Sometimes we achieve near Swiss Walton Prairie nirvana.


Mostly it's Malcolm in the Middle 'round these parts.


But anyway.  When things don't go my way (mine, mine, MINE!) I become plagued by Mommy Guilt.  It transpires in the days when nothing goes right (mine = right, after all) and manifests itself in yelled at children, snapped at husbands (well, only one), a lack of punctuality, a grouchy demeanor, and a general sense that I'm about to collapse on the kitchen floor in a puddle of tears the size of Alice in Wonderland's when she flooded the area she was sitting in.  


You might think that this guilt monster only appeared when I become the sudden mother of nine, but it used to show itself quite frequently in the days of being mom to three, two and even one little bundle of joy.


Did our mothers never quite know what they were doing either?


Were they making this up as they went along?


Did they yell?
Curse?
Throw things?
Lock themselves in the bathroom and vow to never, ever come out?
Dream of the days when they could own nice things?
White furniture?
Collectibles?
A candlelit dinner?
One without food in the shape of nuggets and no one bravely martyring their very lives for one small taste of string beans?


Did they?


Did they fear that they were ruining our lives?
Did they sweat the small stuff?
Did they want to commit heinous murders over our socks and shoes left in the hallway?
Were they horribly embarrassed when we did horribly embarrassing things in front of their friends or their own parents?
Did they fear they were ruining our lives?
Did I already say that?


And will our children do/say/feel this way too?


Is it the Vicious Mother Cycle that plagued even Eve in the garden?


Working moms feel guilty about working.  Stay at home moms feel judged for not working.  Nursing moms feel guilty about not letting anyone else feed their child.  Bottle feeding moms feel guilty over not nursing.  Public schooling moms feel less for not homeschooling.  Homeschooling moms feel isolated for their choice.  Guilt, guilt, guilt.  We want our children to have it all, and yet we're smart enough to know that isn't good for them.  We want to give our undivided attention, but we are divided.  Divided by dinners, chores, papers, bills, phones, friends, laundry, bosses, husbands, holidays, all those things we forgot and all those things we still haven't done yet but wish we were because it's bothering us in the backs of our minds.


I feel guilty for homeschooling even though I believe in it.
I feel guilty for not getting up early enough in the mornings to make a good breakfast for nine kids, instead letting them fend for themselves.
I feel guilty for not voting yet today.
I feel guilty that my kids have never been to Disneyland.
I feel guilty that I've done irreparable damage to their little minds by something I've said or done, even unintentionally, but even worse, intentionally.
I feel guilty that they watch too much tv.
Or that they don't get to watch enough tv.
Or that they watch the wrong things on tv.
I feel guilty for whining.
I feel guilty when my kids want something and it's only a few dollars but I say no anyway.
I feel guilty for re-gifting but I do it anyway.
I feel guilty that I've never seen Schindler's List.  Ok, not on a daily basis, but I was at this military museum yesterday, and - oh, nevermind.  But we should probably all reflect a bit more on World War II.
I feel guilty for not being able to do high school algebra and always making Mike help the punk's with their homework.
I feel guilty when I DO help with the punk's homework because I might have given them the wrong answer. 
I feel guilty for my flabby tummy.
I feel guilty for writing this when my husband walks in from picking up the kids and I worry that he's wondering why I have found time to be on the computer when I should be doing something constructive.  The guilt almost makes me shut the computer down real quick like and jump up and grab the nearest pile of laundry in guilt.  


I feel guilty for feeling guilty.


Maybe I just need chocolate.


There is no guilt in Lindt Dark Chocolate with Sea Salt.




















this post is linked up with Emily at ave t

This phis constant companion.


It lurks.


It stalks.


It hides in shadows...


waiting for me to mess up.


It doesn't wait long.


Then -
it jumps.
Right onto my back, like a little evil troll.  It grabs my hair and wraps it's legs around my waist and no matter how I jump around and spin, the little troll will not get off.


It's my Mommy Guilt.


I'd like to smash it with a hammer, roll it up in a burlap bag, and then go bury it in my garden were it can compost and do some good.


I think I may have mentioned before that I am just a little, just a tad, a bit, a smidgen, idealistic.


In the world in my delusional head, it's a constant running episode of The Waltons mixed with a little Little House on the Prairie, with a pinch of the Swiss Family Robinson thrown in for adventure (and for the tree houses).  Sometimes we achieve near Swiss Walton Prairie nirvana.


Mostly it's Malcolm in the Middle 'round these parts.


But anyway.  When things don't go my way (mine, mine, MINE!) I become plagued by Mommy Guilt.  It transpires in the days when nothing goes right (mine = right, after all) and manifests itself in yelled at children, snapped at husbands (well, only one), a lack of punctuality, a grouchy demeanor, and a general sense that I'm about to collapse on the kitchen floor in a puddle of tears the size of Alice in Wonderland's when she flooded the area she was sitting in. 


You might think that this guilt monster only appeared when I become the sudden mother of nine, but it used to show itself quite frequently in the days of being mom to three, two and even one little bundle of joy.


Did our mothers never quite know what they were doing either?


Were they making this up as they went along?


Did they yell?
Curse?
Throw things?
Lock themselves in the bathroom and vow to never, ever come out?
Dream of the days when they could own nice things?
White furniture?
Collectibles?
A candlelit dinner?
One without food in the shape of nuggets and no one bravely martyring their very lives for one small taste of string beans?


Did they?


Did they fear that they were ruining our lives?
Did they sweat the small stuff?
Did they want to commit heinous murders over our socks and shoes left in the hallway?
Were they horribly embarrassed when we did horribly embarrassing things in front of their friends or their own parents?
Did they fear they were ruining our lives?
Did I already say that?


And will our children do/say/feel this way too?


Is it the Vicious Mother Cycle that plagued even Eve in the garden?


Working moms feel guilty about working.  Stay at home moms feel judged for not working.  Nursing moms feel guilty about not letting anyone else feed their child.  Bottle feeding moms feel guilty over not nursing.  Public schooling moms feel less for not homeschooling.  Homeschooling moms feel isolated for their choice.  Guilt, guilt, guilt.  We want our children to have it all, and yet we're smart enough to know that isn't good for them.  We want to give our undivided attention, but we are divided.  Divided by dinners, chores, papers, bills, phones, friends, laundry, bosses, husbands, holidays, all those things we forgot and all those things we still haven't done yet but wish we were because it's bothering us in the backs of our minds.


I feel guilty for homeschooling even though I believe in it.
I feel guilty for not getting up early enough in the mornings to make a good breakfast for nine kids, instead letting them fend for themselves.
I feel guilty for not voting yet today.
I feel guilty that my kids have never been to Disneyland.
I feel guilty that I've done irreparable damage to their little minds by something I've said or done, even unintentionally, but even worse, intentionally.
I feel guilty that they watch too much tv.
Or that they don't get to watch enough tv.
Or that they watch the wrong things on tv.
I feel guilty for whining.
I feel guilty when my kids want something and it's only a few dollars but I say no anyway.
I feel guilty for re-gifting but I do it anyway.
I feel guilty that I've never seen Schindler's List.  Ok, not on a daily basis, but I was at this military museum yesterday, and - oh, nevermind.  But we should probably all reflect a bit more on World War II.
I feel guilty for not being able to do high school algebra and always making Mike help the punk's with their homework.
I feel guilty when I DO help with the punk's homework because I might have given them the wrong answer. 
I feel guilty for my flabby tummy.
I feel guilty for writing this when my husband walks in from picking up the kids and I worry that he's wondering why I have found time to be on the computer when I should be doing something constructive.  The guilt almost makes me shut the computer down real quick like and jump up and grab the nearest pile of laundry in guilt. 


I feel guilty for feeling guilty.


Maybe I just need chocolate.


There is no guilt in Lindt Dark Chocolate with Sea Salt.