Nina In New York: I Pronounce Me Eternally Guilty
A lighthearted look at news, events, culture and everyday life in New York. The opinions expressed are solely those of the writer.
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By Nina Pajak
There comes a time in every young mother's life when she will be made (by herself or some external source) to feel like absolute garbage. An utter and complete monument to failure. A terrible, terrible trash person who isn't fit to govern her own life, let alone that of an innocent child.
It's called Tuesday. Or Thursday, or Saturday, or whichever day of whichever week of whichever month she happens to accidentally cause her baby what appears to be irreversible strife. Maybe she took too long with the bottle. Maybe she misjudged a diaper situation. Maybe she just wanted to finish folding the laundry before retrieving her kid from a nap cut short. Perhaps she dared to remove a dangerous "toy" or attempted to impose a regular sleep schedule. Or was too strict in imposing a sleep schedule. Or she spends too much time with her child or not enough time or the time spent isn't enriching enough or maybe it's overstimulating. Or she fed her baby too late or too early or too much or too little or not enough or too many chicken nuggets. Chicken nuggets are okay, right? Are they really so bad? Come on. Really? Darn. Or she could have done something really nefarious, like let her baby watch or not watch a little TV or left her baby with a sitter so she could do some work or go to the doctor or—I almost dare not speak it—get a haircut.
Right now, for instance, I am sitting and drinking an almond milk smoothie in an organic vegan gluten-free fair trade coffee shop while my daughter may or may not be wailing for me in the arms of a teacher in a classroom down the street. Let the self-flagellation begin.
As much as we sister-moms try to tell each other that we're doing everything right (except did you see what Judy did last week at the playground? OMG, what kind of mother is she?), and as much as we coach ourselves into remembering that our best is enough and everything we do is in some way for the betterment of our kids' lives, there is no escaping the guilt. It is crushing. It is overwhelming. It is a constant knot in our stomachs, a dull, continuous, phantom pang, a spiteful little chipmunk who lives in the backs of our brains and spends his days gnawing away until we are reduced to blubbering puddles of conflicting emotions who will do or say or buy anything to make our kids stop crying. It's not that we can't logically see that we're not actually hurting them. It's just that logic has nothing to do with this.
Currently, I am engaging in what has been perhaps the most emotionally confusing practice I've encountered thus far as a mom: separation. After being home with her for two years, I made the decision to send my daughter to a little toddler camp for a few mornings a week. Miraculously, she's been cool as a cucumber. So the days when I leave her and she's fine, I am blissfully free. Free to go to the gym, run errands unfettered, talk on the phone, take a walk, eat a meal, sit in a coffee shop. Sounds nice, right? It is. It's so nice to feel free! Free as a bird! Free as a butterfly! Free to . . . wait, should I be cleaning right now? Maybe I need to start cooking again. I could wash the car. I have 7.5 extra hours a week now, should I get a part-time job? Wait, then I also get a nap? Oh, this is egregious. Who am I, a Real Housewife of Queens? Some lady who lunches? This is wrong. What have I done? I can't be shopping! PUT THAT SHIRT DOWN, YOU LAZY, GOOD-FOR-NOTHING SLACKER.
Naturally, the days when the separation does not go well are unbearable by many more times. Like right now, as I sit and type and stare at dairy-free scones and torment myself with whether my initial, sound reasoning for doing this in the first place was as sound as I'd thought. And at the same time, a teeny bit of my leisure-related guilt has been relieved due to my current state of stress. I can't say it exactly balances out, but I'm finding stasis.
I often preach that parents need to take it easy on themselves. If there's love and food and shelter and medical care, we're doing great. These aren't real problems. But that's just brain-me talking. Heart/soul/lower-intestines-me are far less generous. They're the mean girls of my body, and on Wednesdays they wear pink. And shame. Twisted, twisted shame.
On the bright side, I think I'm finally understanding the genesis of the cycle of maternal guilt, martyrdom and guilt-provocation. So, you know, I'll save a lot on therapy bills.
Nina Pajak is a writer living with her husband, daughter and dog in Queens. Connect with Nina on Twitter!
