Mom Guilt

 There are days when everything that could go wrong does—horribly. Today was one of those days. You all know her by the billion nicknames I have for her, but today, she will simply be my little girl. My little girl hasn’t been feeling well, and naturally, she took being a Velcro baby to new heights, practically gluing herself to my chest. Just last week, her dad and I were taking shifts carrying her day and night because she needed that comfort and care. She’s a real cuddler, just like her dad. I, on the other hand, am touch-averse. And while you can reason with a partner who craves physical touch, you can’t do that with a baby.

Now, you’ll never hear me call my daughter “difficult.” For one, I don’t think it’s fair. And two, I refuse to associate negative emotions with someone who cannot take care of herself and has only been alive for all of nine months. It’s a mean and ridiculous sentiment. Until the day comes when I know she’s the drama—meaning we’ve raised her well, and she still chooses chaos—I won’t call her such.

But today was difficult. This whole week has been difficult—and I know it’s only Monday, but walk with me. When you’re home all day with an infant whose vocabulary consists of “yea” and “dada” and whose favorite pastime is belting out her lungs, time stops functioning normally. I don’t measure my days by the calendar unless someone reminds me.

I’m frustrated because somehow, I’ve misled people. I keep hearing that I make motherhood look easy—despite how often I say I have crippling anxiety and depression. Despite the way my shoulders bow with exhaustion, my eyes darken with a tiredness that can’t be explained, and my tears spill freely to my partner and friends. It is not easy.

Every time I leave my daughter in the care of someone else, I am hit with every terrible possibility of what could happen to her. And sometimes, my anxiety is proven right. The guilt of it is indescribable. There are no words in the English language that fully capture it.

Something happened today that I’m sure many parents have experienced and moved past, yet here I am, hours later, still reeling—despite the fact that my girl went to sleep soundly. She looked peaceful, as beautiful as always. But I sat there spiraling, monitoring her breathing, begging whatever higher power was listening for everything to be okay. For some reason, I convinced myself that she’d wake up angry with me. That she’d hate me.

Imagine my shock when she woke up, locked eyes with me, and gave me a toothless grin that took up her whole face. My little feral girl reached up to caress my cheek, nuzzled into my chest, and inhaled my scent. (Y’all… I’m still breastfeeding, so I feel like I stink all the time! Spiderman says I smell good, but I don’t believe her. My sister insists I’m fine, but as long as I’m breastfeeding, I will always be suspicious of my scent!)

She reached for kisses, for cuddles. We giggled and cooed, and as I held her close, whispering how much I love her, I felt it—she loves me too. In true Hiccup fashion, she immediately tried to eat something that wasn’t food. My Zambuk, to be specific. It was as if the entire afternoon had never happened. All she saw was her mom, and she was happy to see me.

The weight of that is soul-crushing—to realize that my guilt does not extend to her. In her eyes, I am simply her trusted adult.

So why do we feel mom guilt? Why did I have to work through a 30-minute panic attack just to get to this moment?

Maybe it’s because we’ve been conditioned to believe that if something goes wrong, it’s our fault. That if we’re not perfect, we’re failing. But the truth is, mom guilt serves no one. It doesn’t make us better mothers. It doesn’t undo mistakes. It only drains us. My daughter wasn’t holding onto my anxiety—so why was I?

I don’t have all the answers, but I do know this: my little girl doesn’t need a perfect mother. She just needs me.

And I am enough. 

I know that sounds corny…like really corny, but there’s always someone reminding me of where I’m falling short so this is for me and anyone who feels what I feel, whether this is their first rodeo or not. Always remember: inhala, exhala.