Tag Archives: Mother

Mom Guilt

Posted in All Posts, Family, Kids, Life, Motherhood by

We can’t catch a break.  Molly is sick.  AGAIN.  Strep this time.  The other four are coughing, have stomach aches, and the general yuckies.  This time, even the husband got sick and I’m still coughing (though I wouldn’t be if I could remember to take that darn allergy medicine.)

I had to call into work again, for two days.  Depending on what the doctor says about the other four kids tomorrow, I may have to call in for more.  I feel terrible about it.

I’ve missed A LOT of work this year.  Every time I call in, my stomach does these little flip-flops.  I just know they think I’m lying.  After all, whose kids get sick every other week?

Mine, obviously.  With five of them in the house, it wouldn’t surprise me if it’s all the same illness from October, just slowly making the rounds.  Once it grounds one, it moves on to the next, and so on and so forth.  We are the revolving door of bacteria.

revolving door

It’s times like these when I miss staying home with my kids the most.  When I was home, if a kid was sick it wasn’t a big deal.  They stayed in bed, I took them to the doctor, to the McDonald’s (the compensation for the poking and prodding at the doctor’s office) and back home again.  Zero guilt.  Now, I have to make the dreaded phone call to work.  It’s stressful.  As if it’s not stressful enough having a sick kid.

Then I think about those mothers who have more important jobs than me.  Not that feeding children in a school cafeteria isn’t important, but let’s face it.  Anybody can do my job and there is a list of substitutes who’d love the work.  What about those people who are the only ones who can do their jobs?  The ones who, if they miss a day, cause other people to not be able to do their jobs?

I’m guessing a lot of sick children are given some ibuprofen and sent on their (un)merry way to infect other children (like mine.)  I’m not blaming them.  I’ve done it myself, on occasion.  But I don’t like it.

In fact, I hate it.

sick toddler pulling on her earsWhen my kids are crying because they have a headache, or their ears hurt, and they have a temperature, I can’t  stand the idea of making them go to school because I “can’t” miss work.  It’s not fair to them or me.  They’re my kids.  I want to take care of them.  They deserve to be taken care of.

Childhood lasts but an instant and the days when I can tend to their every need are numbered.  They are precious.

I don’t know what the solution is.  What I do know, is that every mom has to make the decision to work or not, according to what’s best for their family.  I know that we, as mothers, need to keep in mind that we all want what’s best for our children before we condemn others for the decisions they, as mothers, make.

I also know that when we make that decision, no matter how much or how long we weighed the options, we always feel guilty about that decision at one time or another.

Guilty for calling off work.  Guilty for working at all.  Guilty for not working.  Guilty for sending kids to daycare.  Guilty for sending sick kids to school. Guilty for not contributing money to the household.  Guilty for the time we get to spend with our kids.  Guilty for the time we don’t.  Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.

Guilt sucks.

“Guilt: the gift that keeps on giving.” ~Erma Bombeck

Guilt

 

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“The Feeling” (Part I)

Posted in All Posts, Family, Kids, Life, Motherhood, Writing by

I had “the feeling.”  Rather than waiting and fretting, I headed to the Dollar General Store to buy the pregnancy test.  I was a Pro, no need for a $15 test when the $1 one worked just as well.  It would probably be negative anyway.  Other than “the feeling,” I had no reason to suspect anything.  It was too early.

I got the results in record time.  It took 4 seconds for two lines to appear. Oh me.  I dialed my husband’s work number, waited long enough for him to say hello and broke the news gently.  “I’m pregnant.”

“Oooomph.”  I had knocked the wind out of him.  The rest of the conversation proceeded in cheesy sitcom fashion.  Lots of “ooohs” and “ohs” and “ahs” and “okays” broken up by stunned silences.   What was the big deal?  It was only our 5th baby.

We broke the news to his mom.  “What?!” followed by the most pitiful look I’d ever received.  She recovered quickly.  She apologized and gave me a hug, the kind you give someone who has suffered a trauma.  It was appropriate.

Next on the list was my father-in-law.  He was rendered speechless.  It was the first miracle I’d ever witnessed.

Finally, I called my mom.  She wasn’t shocked.  She’d had a dream I was pregnant.  I made her tell my dad.  I always had trouble telling my dad I was pregnant.  I know he knows how I got that way, and wouldn’t all dads prefer not to be reminded that their daughters are doing “that”?

I enjoyed the pregnancy, my last. Sure my nose swelled up and spanned almost ear to ear, but I could wear maternity jeans.  Maternity jeans are the absolute best thing about being pregnant.  I wore them for about a year and a half, until I discovered yoga pants.  I didn’t get morning sickness.  I ate whatever and whenever I wanted.  I was living the dream, baby.

I scheduled my delivery.   I planned on doing it without an epidural.  Not because I wanted a beautiful, fulfilling birthing experience, but because I hated the idea of not being able to move my legs.  I hated being heaved in and out of bed by an irate nurse.  I panicked when I thought of being paralyzed from the waist down.  Semi-natural was my choice.  Bring on the Demoral.

I was doing really well until my coach said the worst thing she could possibly say.  “You only have to do this for a couple of more hours.”

TWO HOURS of this horrendous, awful, terrible, gut-wrenching Pain?  I started to whimper and called for the epidural.

It took several pricks in my spine to get it in and it only worked on one side, but I could feel my legs.  Then, I passed out.  Anesthesia, or any drugs for that matter, knock me out.

Then my blood pressure dropped, making me even more sleepy.  I don’t remember much after that, except for overhearing the nurses talking to the family of a laboring woman.  ”…pressure too low…needs to improve…we may need to do a C-Section…”  Poor girl, I thought, not realizing the poor girl was me.  I found out later the nurse told my husband to keep nudging me and not to worry as long as I responded.  Nice.

Time passed and I opened my eyes, suddenly wide awake.  I saw my mother-in-law praying, and said, “I think I need to go to the bathroom.”  The nurse checked me.  Nature was calling, but not in the way I thought.

The delivery room sprang to life.  Tools laid out, lights positioned, baby incubator wheeled in, and the big, fat, exhausted soon-to-be-not-pregnant lady in the stirrups.  The doctor was set to receive and the play was in motion.

A few pushes later (I am an excellent pusher) and Anna Grace entered the world, re-dividing my heart from four parts into five.

What A Difference A Day Makes

Posted in All Posts, Family, Life, Motherhood by

At some point, every mom feels useless, lazy, inept, stupid, sad, fake, or guilty.  Useless because she’s “just a mom” and doesn’t have anything else to offer the world.  Lazy because the dishes are piled in the sink, the laundry basket is full, and there’s a strange smell coming from the kid’s room and she doesn’t have the energy to care, much less do anything about it.  Inept because she’s just yelled at the kids for being kids and is probably doing things on a daily basis that will screw them up for life.  Stupid because she can’t remember the word for that round glass object she piles the mountains of food on to scarf down in a mindless comfort eating session.  Sad because she spends too much time reading Jane Austen novels and watching too many chick flicks and then wondering why her husband isn’t making grand declarations of his love and appreciation using words of four or more syllables or pithy statements like “You complete me.”  Fake because no matter how she’s feeling on the inside, outwardly she’s smiling and pretending everything is great.  Guilty because her kids and her husband know the truth.

http://www.sxc.hu/photo/479464

Image via stock.xchnge

Usually, these emotions don’t present all at the same time.  There’s a brief moment of weakness and then the joys of life take over.  The kids say the cutest thing, her husband does the dishes, complete strangers compliment her kids’ manners, she answers 75% of the questions on Jeopardy, there are clean spoons, or when somebody asks her how she feels she can honestly answer, “Great!”  These are the normal ups and downs of motherhood–life spent in the slightly hazy outskirts of mom fog.

Then there are the unusual times.  When all these emotions are weighing so heavily, it’s difficult to get out of bed.  And that is where I’ve been for the past month or so.  I’ve been walking around in a mom fog so dense I can’t even see my hand in front of my face. I suppose it’s a kind of depression.  Luckily, it’s the situational kind.  I know why I’m depressed and I know what to do about it.

I have lived away from “home” for 9 years.  I get back every once in a while for a completely inadequate amount of time for the things I want to do and the people I want to see.  I miss my family and friends.  It’s normally just a vague feeling in the back of my mind that occasionally moves to the forefront when I stop and think too much.  Usually, I’m too busy to dwell on it.  Lately, it’s been thrown in my face.

First of all, having kids is a constant trip down memory lane.  Every birthday reminds me of my childhood at that particular age.  Every slumber party revives the memories of late nights giggling, gossiping, and swooning over boys both “real” and famous.  Every goofball thing my kids say and do reminds me of the goofball things I did as a kid.  It’s impossible not to compare my experiences with theirs.

Then there’s the stupid wonderful thing that is Facebook.  I get to read what my family and friends are doing without me.  A simple status update of “Best girls night out EVER” reminds me of what I’m missing and nearly brings me to tears.

Worst of all, there’s The Blog.  I started Momfog as a way to combat mom fog–an outlet for frustration and creativity, a way to connect to adults, a way to discuss non-kid-related subjects.  It worked.  For a while.  Then I started using a writing prompt–RemembeRED.  I love doing it.  I read some fantastic writing and get some feedback for my own.  But it’s all about memoir.  I’m forced to look back on my childhood and the constant stream of memories only make me more homesick.  It started with The Games of Life which made me think of my best friend and cousin (the writer of the offending Facebook status) and my mamaw.  That made me think of my grandma, aunts and uncles, and my other cousins.  That led me to write My Old Kentucky Home.  That only made things worse.  The fog that I thought was harmless and amusing became an ever-present, black, suffocating thing.  I thought I was doomed to wander aimlessly in it forever.

And then I got the phone call.

My dear daddy is going to help me come home.  My husband has graciously agreed he can survive two weeks without me and the kids.  He’s even got a plan for the food situation.  He’s going to take advantage of his female co-workers’ sympathy and beg leftovers.  I sincerely hope he’s joking, but after tasting the Korean egg rolls he brought home, I’m not sure I’d blame him for trying.  His mother has also offered to let him come to her house if he gets lonely.  It’s comical, really.  The man can cook and I’m sure he will fare just fine in the loneliness department.  He’ll have his mistress to keep him busy.  I’m speaking of golf, of course.  Two weeks of as much golf as he can handle with absolutely no one to gripe about it?  Yeah, I’m sure he’ll suffer greatly while I’m gone.

So, just like that, the fog has lifted.  I wasn’t depressed.  Not really.  I just wanted to go home, see my family, and have a girl’s night out with old friends.  Guess what?  I feel like cleaning my house from top to bottom.  Maybe I’ll watch a Lifetime “men are evil” movie and thank my lucky stars for my husband, who may not say “You complete me” out loud but shows me in a million subtle ways that I do.  When my kids are fighting and doing their best to make me lose my marbles, I’ll attack them with kisses and get them on the ground for a good ol’ tickle fight.  No feelings of inadequacy, no guilt, and no yelling.

Until I have to spend 12 hours alone in the car with them, anyway.