Mom Guilt

If there's one thing I've learned, in these long nine weeks of having a baby, it's that having a baby is insanely tough. Let's just say I'm running on four hours of sleep, right now, because my baby had gas. That's right. He had the farts, and so now I have four hours of sleep. No, they weren't that loud of farts. The baby was loud. He screamed and screamed. I tried feeding him, cuddling him, changing him, singing to him, etc. The only thing that seemed to work was taking him upstairs, holding him in the fetal position in my lap and rocking him back and forth, crying. My tears, not his. We did this at one and at three o'clock. And this was just a couple nights after I bragged about him sleeping nine hours straight.

I cried because I was heart-broken for that little sweaty, red-faced boy, who was, for all the world, in agony, screaming hysterically. I loved on him, telling him over and over again that "I know." and "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." We're trying a new formula. We're trying better bottles. We're going back to using gripe water, again, despite the fact that he is no longer colicky in the evenings. I'm haunted by the sneaky, haunting suspicion that being a parent never gets easier.

So GUILT. I've been thinking about it. A lot. There are lots of things to feel guilty about:

I don't breastfeed my baby. (He was too stupid and impatient, and I was depressed, with flat nipples. TMI! Sorry! Snuck that one up on you! Ha!)
I call my son stupid. (I plan on stopping this, as soon as he shows signs of speaking English.)
I buy my son cheap Wal-Mart bottles, instead of the fancy pants bottles. (Until last night...)
I put my son in his swing while I wash the dishes and clean the house, even though he's still awake. (Instead of holding him until he sleeps.)
I put my son to sleep with blankets, and he has non-mesh, suffocating-style bumpers in his crib. (They market them that way.)
I also put him in his own room when he was two months old, instead of the recommended six. (Because I want him to die of SIDS.)
I sing my son ballads, hymns, and anti-war songs, and can count the number of times I've sung him a lullaby on my ELBOW, which has no fingers, thank you very much. He sleeps to Coldplay.
I use all-in-one, one size cloth diapers for my son instead of flats. And none of them have cute hot air balloons on them. They're solid colors, and four of them are even pink, and I don't even care. And I'm not buying him any more of them, just because they're "cute."

Yeah, you can literally find ANYTHING to judge a mom about.

The big one that's killing me is that I'm going back to work, full time, in July. I feel guilty that I'm looking forward to it. I feel guilty that I'm excited to talk to other adults every day. I feel guilty that my baby will be cared for by someone else. I fear that he'll call HER "mommy."

So, naturally, I wanted to find some support, as a working mother. I wanted to find some reassurance. I wanted to find some comfort. I'm a part of a couple "New Mom" support groups, on Facebook, but quickly found no comfort there, for the full-time working mommies of the world.

See, there's shaming, and guilt. Being a mom, I've discovered a whole new set of abbreviations, used to describe mothers who are better than me. EBF - Exclusively Breast Fed. SAHM - Stay at Home Mom. And to make it better, those dirty-rotten moms stole my "Full-Time" employee abbreviation. Because FTM doesn't mean Full Time Mom. It means Full Time MOM - another SAHM abbreviation.

I'm surrounded by SAHMs. They brag to you about their good fortune and cooking skills, how they're working out, and losing weight, and painting their ceilings, and crafting up a storm, and how they have the time to teach their twelve children the periodic table of elements by heart.

So I've made my own abbreviation, based on the pressure I feel I receive from those around me. I guess I am a NHB - Neglectful Human Being. Because I'm not even his mother, at this rate, with all my crappy "parenting." Sorry. Yes. I am going back to work full-time. Because I want to.

I'm currently looking for more NHBs. I'm looking for a bit of support, in that department, and it's hard to come by.

Because I guess I am a NHB. I read to my son, and I sing him to sleep. I rock him to sleep when he has trouble on his own. I stay up all hours of the night when he's feeling sick, and respond to the "I dropped my binkie!" cry within sixty seconds. Every time. Honestly, he's spoiled rotten.

I make sure he gets enough sunlight, and lay down next to him when he does tummy time, encouraging him on. I talk to him about all kinds of things, the future, God, and even explain historical events to him, as he listens in wide-eyed wonder. I've made him toys and clothes, spent hours researching health concerns. I take him on adventures he will never remember, and honestly, can't even see, right now, unless it's 18 inches in front of his face. I've done my best to make sure I'm not helicoptering him, but can't stand listening to his unaided cries for long. I run to him.

Is there anyone else like me out there, who works full time? Where are you?

Because being a mother, being a parent NEVER ends.

The first night home from the hospital, I had my first real wave of guilt. It was having to supplement breastfeeding with formula. My gracious, understanding mother was there, and sent me to my room to sleep. I was freaking out. I wasn't good enough. Despite all my trying, I was failing my son. I was scared that I was going to kill him. I didn't want to be a mother anymore. I had glorious Postpartum Depression. My mother came and lay beside me on the bed, after an hour or so, and talked me down, stroked my hair, and told me everything was going to be alright. My child would live. This would get easier.

After the first few days of daily crying, feeling that my life ran in three hour repeating, Groundhog Day-like, hellish intervals, my mom was still there, still talking me down and reassuring me that he was fine. That I was fine. That parenting was worth it. She showed me how to make him comfortable, how to wrap him up Aussie style. She even showed me how to play with him, a concept which was hard for me to grasp, in my heightened anxiety and sadness. My mother's calm, optimistic presence saved me.

And I was formula fed. In fact, I'm pretty sure she even put me down to sleep on my stomach. And trusted us around knives, when we were very small. And she worked. She still does. Constantly. She makes everyone else look bad, with how much she works.

This guilt thing ain't worth it. He'll survive.