Mom Guilt

I’ll tell you about guilt. I know her by name.

She sits on my shoulder as I move through most days.

She whispers in my ear or tugs on my hair in moments. Moments when I need to say ‘no’ or ‘not right now’. When I’m rushing to brush my teeth and wash my face.

Guilt gnaws at me. Gnaws as I hear my baby whine and I have to say ‘hold on’, as I finish a tidy, pack up the car, or tend to my toddler.

Guilt is on a mean streak. She’s vicious with her tone. Unpredictable and cruel. She keeps all her criticisms just for me.

She pipes up and her cries ring in my ears when I leave the messy house to hang with a friend or when I pass the kids over to shower, exercise, meditate.

I swat at her. I try to plug my ears. But she’s persistent, that guilt.

She clouds the joy that sits in front of me and holds enough power to cause a terrible drought. A drought that leads me to forget the last time I stretched or read a book or went for a walk alone.

Guilt dares to speak at unexpected times. She’s twisted. A little messed up. Because even when I’m doing something in service of my family, like groceries or cleaning the bathroom — I’ll sometimes feel guilt brush against me. She’ll name something that I’m also not doing.

And so now I’m trying something new. Trying to stop shushing her and instead, make friends with her.

If she’s so stubborn, she can stay.

But she’ll have to get used to me lovingly ignoring her. And I’ll get used to her whining through me caring for myself.

I think by softening to her, I can despise her less. I can understand that she’s a product of my mothering. A conjuring of what I’ve learned and witnessed. I can see her in a different light.

So, guilt can perch on my shoulder. And I’ll do what’s going to fill my cup anyway.