a year ago
I spend most of my days filled with guilt.
It stains my cheeks, I can’t get it off my hands, and it weighs heavily on my shoulders.
Since becoming a mother, along with fatigue, guilt has been my constant companion.
While playing with my son, I glance over at the sink filled with dishes and instantly feel guilty.
If I run to him too quick when he cries, the little voice whispers “you’re spoiling him.”
If I pull him into our bed after too many wakeups in the wee hours in the morning, I can hear the pediatrician saying, “it will be more difficult go get him out later.”
If dinner is not piping hot and ready on the stove, I feel like a bad wife even though I do not live in a cute fifties sitcom.
When I sneak away for a book club or savor more than one cup of coffee at work, a tiny part of me feels guilty that I enjoy being away.
When I could be pumping liquid gold from my engorged breasts, I try to put down the words running inside of my head like a mouse in a cage instead.
Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.
Some days it consumes me, claws at me, makes me second guess everything I do or say or feel.
I’ve been working on communicating better; asking for help before I get burned out. I texted a friend last week who also has a small baby although not her first one.
She told me to f*ck it all and spend time with my baby because before you know it, they will won’t want anything to do with you.
I try to focus on that instead of the guilt. I nestle in my husband’s arms when the baby is quiet. I mentally file every baby milestone so I can soak in the cuteness right in front of me.
And take it one day at a time.