"Our children are spoiled, our elders abused."

Recently a friend stated, upon their views of America as a whole that "our children are spoiled and our elders are abused."

To be honest, when I first heard him say this I thought it was ridiculous. Like absolutely.

I mean, you can't even spoil children. They're people, not foods. They don't spoil!

And our elders, well, my experiences are limited. But my grandparents all seem fine. They're loved and can take care of themselves.When my grandpa got to the point where he needed some assisted living, he was well cared for and our family visited often. During his last days he was surrounded by those who loved him; never was he abused.

But after I let this sink in, once I was able to let my defensive front down (you know the one - the one you automatically put up when anyone challenges your beliefs), I started to get it. And believe it.

Actually, I have two separate feelings on this subject. On the one hand, I so very strongly agree with statement. Perhaps on a more materialistic ground. On the other hand, I vehemently disagree with this statement.

Let me explain.

I know there are spoiled children and abused elderly in this country (and elsewhere). But when you state that a whole nation is a certain way, it really makes you reflect on your own life.

Before we ever got married, I made it very clear to J under what circumstances I would leave this marriage without thinking twice. They were pretty basic - you abuse me or our children, I'm gone. You begin abusing substances (alcohol, narcotics, etc.), I'm gone. And the third one, the one I'm now questioning, you ever put anyone or anything before our children, I'm gone.

They seemed reasonable and basic. I wouldn't be part of an abusive relationship or allow my children to be harmed in any way (this includes mental and emotional, not just physical). I wouldn't be with someone who was dependant on mind-altering substances. And I wouldn't be with someone who found any thing, person, or situation more important than his children. These all stemmed from things from my own childhood, and they seemed totally acceptable.

J agreed.

This 3rd clause in our agreement, if you will, included finances. We would never be giving money to other people (i.e., family) while saying that our children could not do or have something.

It made sense to me. If we couldn't afford our children's clothes or food or even extracurriculars, then we were not in a position to be helping out others financially.

But I'm starting to see how ridiculously selfish this is. Of course it is our duty to put our children's needs first. They should be (well) fed, (decently) clothed, and always have heat and water. Those are necessities.

But my very strong belief was that if we could not afford a $50 dress or $200 karate lessons or whatever, because we needed to pay someone else's mortgage, well, screw that. Someone else's mortgage doesn't get paid.

They put themselves into that situation. They're adults. They should take care of themselves.

But I also come from a culture where we don't care for our elders. We abandon them in nursing homes when they need help or assistance. We let the banks take their homes when they can no longer afford them.

And by golly, we don't feel bad or guilty for it. I mean, they're adults, for crying out loud. They should have foreseen all of this. They should have planned things better. What kind of grown person must depend on their children?

But I'm getting it now.

Slowly.

I still struggle with it.

Every day.

But I also have come to a place where I realize that $50 towards, say, my in-laws mortgage is better spent than $50 on a dress H will wear once (and yes, I've done that. More than once...).

Call me dense. Call me shallow. Whatever. (I'm 24! I'm still figuring this stuff out.)

I've never cared about money in terms of myself, but the idea that I couldn't or wouldn't give my kids everything under the sun that I had the means to was unfathomable once upon a time. And now I get that part of teaching my children compassion and generosity, obviously starts with me, showing them that just because they could have or do something doesn't mean that they need to. Because sometimes we have to put other people's needs first.

Yep, I'm dense.

So that's where I agree with the statement that our children are spoiled and our elders abused.

I deeply believe that the majority of Americans are more wrapped up in giving their kids "better" or even "everything" that they find it appropriate to ignore the elders. To withhold from them in order to provide this "better" to the young. Even though these things might not be essential, and for the elder, what we are withholding is indeed, essential.

Now, on to how I disagree with this statement. Vehemently. Passionately.

Within this same conversation it was mentioned that our elders were raised in an abusive time, and our children are raised in a spoiled time. (It seems, according to this person, however, there was no "safe" time). Again, I hate general blanket statements that encompass everyone as a whole because they are simply never true.

I'm sure to an agree, abuse was more prevalent when our elders were children. But we also have different ideas of abuse between then and now. Not that it makes it okay, but being whipped with a switch 60 years ago wasn't considered abuse. Now you'd get the cops called on you, I'm sure. Heck, now you'd get the cops called on you for allowing your child to ride their bike in your cul de sac without you watching (this just recently happened in Texas). It's all just a difference in times, I suppose. 

But in general, the person who made this profound statement about spoiled children and abused elders said that we allow our children to do as they please. We are ridiculously free-range and do everything child-led. To the point, of course, that children lack a respect for the elderly or authority. They do not do as they are told when they are told, etc., etc.

Yes and no, I agree. I obviously believe really strongly in raising free-range kids, allowing them to lead their own paths. If they don't want to sit down and color or practice letters, I say no problem. I cringe when they participate in organized activities and are told to stand in line or sit down and be still. I suppose there is likely a time and a place for everything, but I don't like lines for small children and I hate the idea of them sitting and being still. It seems so unnatural and like they're so defeated.

I believe that children have the right to scream and cry and shouldn't be so scared as to immediately quiet their feelings just because a parent or other adult figure has told them to do so. I don't feel that it is disobedience to have a tantrum or to speak their mind, even if it isn't extremely polite.

I even very strongly believe in allowing my children to dictate their own education. I think homework should be illegal. I believe if a child doesn't want to learn about history for a week, a month, or even a year, let it go. They will learn what they need to when they need when they are given that freedom.

It is my job simply to guide them, not lead them in all aspects of their lives. They are the leaders of their own lives.

Does this all make them spoiled?

I don't believe so.

Though I'm sure many would disagree.

So it's a tricky, double-facet, blanket statement to make about our nation as whole. It depends on how you interpret such a statement. It depends on your own beliefs of the elderly in this country, as well as the youth. There are so many variables in such a statement, that I'd be surprised if any two people came to the same thoughts, beliefs, and conclusions toward it.

But there you have it.

Our children are spoiled, our elders abused.

There's a lot of heart break in motherhood

Before I became a mom I had no idea that your heart could break.

Truly, physically, painfully, sorrowfully break.

More than once at that.

But it can.

It does.

It will.

The first time your wee one cries during their newborn heel prick it’s like someone has literally punched the wind out of you. The world stops spinning. And then it starts spinning on turbo speed and you feel like you’re going to vomit and there is no way to pacify your sweet babe. No boob, no cuddles or lullabies or warm Mommy arms can make the torture stop for her.

And so your heart breaks.

When your darling is strapped into the car seat screaming to be let out, for Momma to hold him because that’s the only thing in the world he wants. But you can’t stop or pull over at that very second and it takes you another ten minutes to do so and he’s sweaty and beet red and there are thick tears rolling down his face.

Your heart breaks.

When you have to help four nurses hold down your sweet one year old as they intravenously draw blood and he screams your name until he’s hoarse, and you’re able to do oh-so little other than coo to him how much you love him.

You heart breaks.

When that typically delightful, compassionate, and empathetic toddler tells you point blank that you’re not her mom. You’re a bad person. She doesn’t want you.

Your heart shatters.

Obviously, we’re at this last one right now.

It’s tough.

My sweet, lovey H will be a cuddle bug one minute, kissing me, telling me how much she loves me, and the next minute she’s vehemently telling me that I’m not her Mom and I’m a bad person and she doesn’t love me.

For real.

I’m trying not to take it personally.

Because it isn’t.

I’m her safe place. I know that.

She trusts me. She knows I love her unconditionally. She knows I won’t punish her for her feelings or for expressing them.

She’s going through whatever almost 3 year olds go through, for sure. And while she’s sorting it all out she’s using mean words to help herself through it.

I’m just the target of those words. Because she knows I’m safe.

I keep reminding myself of that.

I’m safe for her.

She knows I love her.

And I tell her every time she says mean things that I’m sorry she feels that way, but I really love her.

Because I do, of course.

I also think she might be weaning. She’s only asked about once a day for the past few days and hasn’t nursed very long at all. Which is not the norm for her. So I wonder if mayhap she’s weaning herself and also trying to identify herself as a separate person from me.

I don’t know.

All I know is that to be almost 3 must be extremely difficult.

And to be a momma is heartbreaking. Even for the most made-of-steel individuals out there.

I’m a very I-don’t-care-what-you-say kind of person. I always have been. I’m very confident in my skin and if people like me, great! If not, who cares? It’s not my goal, of course, to purposefully hurt or piss people off, but I’m not going to say stay mum in order to make others happy.

So why should I expect my mini-me to do so?

I don’t.

I just never expected a 2-year-old to have the ability to break my heart with words. I didn’t know it was possible.

Until now.

Oh, the things you aren’t warned about before becoming a mother.

I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I knew there would be sleep deprivation and lack of one-on-one time with my dear spouse. I knew that it would be a long time before I would enjoy a warm meal (those do exist, right?) or got to bathe all on my own. I knew they’d cry and when they got a little older, whine, and sometimes I’d feel like I was losing my mind.

But someone forgot to warn me about the words they’d say.

How every single time you hear your babe utter “Momma”or“I love you” your heart completely melts in love and adoration for a human being so small and impossibly perfect.

But how they can do just the opposite to you, and say words like, “I don’t like you! You’re a bad person!” and suddenly your heart can break to hear such words from a person you love so fully and so unconditionally.

As I said though, I know it’s not personal. Rough to hear, but not personal.

She’s got a lot of things to figure out right now.

She’s almost three for goodness sakes!

A big boy bed

We transferred Mr. B into a big boy bed 10 days ago.

He is doing amazing! I’m so surprised.

I guess I shouldn’t say that. I know he’s amazing. He always surprises me. So really, nothing should surprise me.

We had planned to start the transfer to solo sleeping sometime in April after we had redone the kiddos rooms and they each had a separate sleeping space (so they don’t wake each other, they’re both terribly light sleepers).

But sleep deprivation and the extremely selfish mental need to night wean finally got the best of me.

I 100% refused to let things be as traumatic as they were with H. There were lots of tears involved with her, even though I was always there, etc., etc., and I just told J straight up I wanted to give it a go, but if it was a traumatic event (for either of us!) I wasn’t going to do it (like said 1,245,234 night weaning attempts before this).

Well, B is all about the bed.

We set up H’s crib into the converted toddler bed. I was apprehensive since it doesn’t have a side rail and he’s a flailing bean, but we put down a rug with a huge comforter on the floor below him, and the few times he fell the first three nights, he was mostly unphased.

The first night he fell asleep ridiculously easy without nursing. I nursed him right before I laid him down, he was armed with a sippy cup and dream lite. He tossed back and forth a bit, and finally fell asleep with me kind of leaning over the bed and holding him in the crook of my arm. But I was easily able to escape. He woke up at 9pm, and 11pm, when I brought him back to bed with me.

The next night he fell asleep without me holding or touching him, just sitting beside his bed. He didn’t wake up until 11pm, and then again at 1pm, at which point he came to bed with Momma.

Of course, his 11pm wake up was a bit funny. I heard a thunk! and ran into his room, to find him on the floor. He stood up, looked at me, said, “Ow,” and then crawled into his bed all on his own and went right back to sleep.

This continued on for the next few days (minus the falling out of bed) until the night before we got Duckie. That night he slept straight through until 3am! If only I’d gone to bed before midnight. Agh!

And since Duckie’s arrival he’s slept straight through until 1am.

If you can’t tell, I’m not complaining.

All of this and he has 100% on his own given up night nursing until between 4 and 5am. At which point he nurses until we wake up, but this is far easier than the every 1-2 hours for 1-2 hours at a time he was doing previously (no joke).

And I certainly don’t expect him to sleep a solid 12 hours with no wakings or to make it in his own bed all night. His sister rarely does that at a month shy of 3. And that’s okay. I’m more than happy to be there when they need me. But I’d like them to sleep a bit on their own, too. That’d be cool.

Of course, now I’m getting him used to a bed he doesn’t get to keep past April since it will turn into his sister’s full sized bed. And I don’t think he’s quite ready for the twin sized bed as he’s still a roly poly, and it is significantly higher off the ground. I go round and round on whether we should buy him a proper bed now or just buy him a toddler bed to use for a year or two. I’m leaning toward toddler bed, but not too sure.

Anyway, I’m totally ready to have their bedrooms done so that everyone is stowed away in their own space and things seem a bit more complete around here. (A bit!)

But I am floored. Absolutely floored by how easy this transition has been thus far. I’m waiting for the huge hiccup or the something that goes wrong. Because it seems it’s been too easy to last.

Oh, and the very best part! He’s taking naps in that bed that are for longer than the 30-45minutes he’s dwindled down to since Christmas! He’s now sleeping 1.5-2 hours!

Okay, mostly this was just a “hoorah post.”

And I may very well have hoorahed too soon.

Oh, well.

We’ll always have Paris.

Duckie was the last straw of our sanity

Let's just say having Duckie is a lot of fun.

J is getting a very eye-opening experience on what having kids could have been like for him.

Currently, he's the one feeding Duckie every 3 hours between 12-6 (so yes, that's only two times he literally has to get up and feed him). He's understanding legitimate broken sleep.

He lucked out and never really had to get up with our babes. For the first few weeks when H was born I'd have him change diapers when she first woke up, but then realized that was dumb because I was - at the time - all ready up with her as we hadn't yet mastered breastfeeding laying down. Then with B I made him master the sideways nurse from day one. And since he wasn't a pooper like his sister, I admit, I did not change his diaper every single time he nursed at night, it was more like every other time.

So really, J's sleep was only interrupted by rustling or possibly the brief cry when a bare bum was exposed to cold air. And the week we night-weaned H he took over tending to her for a few nights.

That's it.

He's never really had to do anything major.

If we'd been bottle-feeding the nighttime responsibilities would have for sure been 50/50, simply because that's the type of relationship J and I have (okay, if we're being truthful, it probably would have been more like 75/25, with him on the higher end because I need my sleep whereas J is like, "Give me 4 [solid] hours and I'm good" and I'm like, "That's insanity, I need a solid 8, but 10 would be nice.")

But alas, the poor guy is dying with these nightly feedings. It throws off his four solid hours of sleep. Duckie is a bit of pickle, so we have to do this awesomely fun thing where we make him suck our finger and then squirt the milk into the back of his mouth.

And we've tried all kinds of bottles and nipples and syringes and eye droppers. Duckie's just not impressed. He can drink some milk out of a bowl on his own, but not enough where we don't need to continue to bottle-feed him. But we're working on it all.

At least he's super smart in the potty-arena. He's all ready pretty much puppy pad trained. When it's warmer out, we'll teach him to go outside.

I have just laughed at my poor sleep deprived husband when I appear downstairs at 6am with our bright eyed and bushy tailed toddlers (I can call H a toddler for another month yet!). He tells me, after giving Duckie his last feeding, that he's going up to nap for a few hours and off he goes.

He has no idea what it's been like, obviously, for the past three years, getting up every 45minutes - 2.5 hours with small children. Yes, he's certainly helped out a lot with H in the middle of the night when I've been physically attached to B, and I appreciate that I've never had to "ask for help" because he realizes he's an equal parent, even if the kids don't always want us equally, so it's not like I've been, "Can you get H?" He just does it. Because that's normal. And he almost always gets up with them in the mornings and lets me sleep until at least 630 if they're up before that, and I typically get to sleep until 730-8 on the weekends. But it's still funny to see him act like the past three nights have been rougher than his college years.

Of course, despite it all he's crazy in love with Duckie. He calls him his third child. And when he said it was apparent at this point, if it had been at all questionable before, that we have lost our minds.

He then went on to say, shortly after this, after seeing a picture of a friends baby French Mastiffs, which is the type of dog he'd like to get, that we might as well just get a dog now.

I knew it.

I knew it was coming.

I said sure. Who cares at this point? We're mental.

We're sleep deprived.

And to think four years ago our life was nothing but drinking, sleeping, travelling, and unmentionables. Damn, how things change.

And you know we're both mental, because we both said we wouldn't trade in that life for the one we have now on even the worst of days.

Yep, completely insane.

A pig named Duckie

I married an animal lover. I gave birth to two animal lovers.

I am not an animal lover.

Soulless, I know.

Puppies don't make me melt. Kittens don't make me coo.

I like the idea of practical animals. Goats that give milk. Chickens for eggs. You know, animals for food, not as pets.

Unfortunately, mi familia does not not agree.

At all.

J has been wanting a dog since before we got married.

"No way," I declared. "Too much work."

Two kids later, it still seems like too much work. Now I tell him, along with my sweet H that a dog is not a possibility due my allergies. Once everyone is willingly weaned, maybe we'll talk (I refuse to take non-life or death meds while breastfeeding).

I also argue that my desire to clean up poop after anything I haven't given birth to is zero. Non-existent.

But H is persistent. To the max. "I need a puppy, Mommy," I hear nearly every day. "I need a kitty of my very own." On and on and on she goes.

So I relented. I said fine. Let's do this animal thing.

And then she saw some piggies.

I knew enough about pet pigs to know that they are hypoallergenic, ridiculously clean, and smarter and easier to train than dogs.

And because I am sick of saying no (though I was sooooo close to her just settling for a lizard), I said yes.

And now we have a Duckie.

Formally, his name is Waldo Titus Mallard G. Because we do everything long and complicated around here. I suggested all literary names (of course!). When I suggested Emerson, J asked who that came from. I informed him it was from Ralph Waldo Emerson. He liked Waldo. H couldn't pronounce it well. J piped in with Titus. H was happy with Duckie. So we made Duckie his all-around name, threw in Mallard because we're cool like that if Duckie is to be his nickname (NCIS anyone?).

So now I currently have a 5 day old teacup piglet cuddled on my lap because it seems all infants I come into contact with find it necessary to be held and snuggled 24/7. Duckie is no different.

Go figure.

At this rate, we're going to have a whole damn zoo. J is planning chickens this spring, which I'm all for. But he happily reminded me that if he puts in a fence for Duckie than that opens up the reality of a dog (because obviously now that we have a pig this is more feasible - to him - allergies or no). What's next, a cat? A goat? A freaking cow?

I wouldn't put it past these animal lovers.

So while I'm bottle feeding a pig every 2-3 hours (who is admittedly freaking sweet and adorable and cuddly and a decent substitute for another baby), they're planning their next grand animal to add to our family.

And here I was completely content with none.

But par the course of our family, we can't do anything normal. Nope. We don't start out with a lizard or a stand-offish cat that is low maintenance. We go straight to a sliding, squealing, need-love-and-attention-at-every-moment pig.

Because, you know, everyone needs a pig.

Or at least my kids think so.

A reflection on the (not so) "terrible" 2s.

As Miss H grows closer to 3 each day, I’ve been reflecting on the wonder of the 2s. Everyone prepares you that it’s “terrible.” And then during those moments of terrible, they taunt you that 3 is “treacherous” and so much worse, which just makes you want to cry and drink a bottle (or three) of wine.

But really, 2 is pretty awesome.

Don’t get me wrong, some of it was hard. Like to the max.

July, August, and September made me question all of my parenting. And that was a good thing. It made me change oh-so much, and the result was a much happier Momma, and more importantly, a much happier H. But it was hard.

But mostly 2 has just been awesome. The little H that turned 2 nearly a year ago, and the almost-3 year old H now has changed and grown and developed so much into her own person that sometimes all I can do is just stare in awe at what an amazing, well-spoken, empathetic, terribly compassionate, sweet, loving girl she is. She’s this whole person with lovely (and sometimes not so lovely) thoughts and feelings and she can communicate them all quite effectively.

 

She feels everything big. Her feelings and emotions are big. This, of course, means that her sad and angry emotions are big. And sometimes that’s challenging.

Challenging because it breaks my heart to see her sad no matter the reason. In November while visiting friends I very gently reprimanded her for crawling into a dog crate. Immediately she cried and ran to me, burying her face into my shoulder while I rocked her and she fell asleep. She was sad I reprimanded her, because by that point it was a very rare occurrence, and a bit embarrassed I had done it front of others. I wouldn’t change any of it, I didn’t yell and I was very kind about the whole thing, but it still broke my heart to see her sad and embarrassed.

And it’s even more challenging because even though her sad feelings are big and heart breaking, her angry feelings are big and loud and sometimes difficult for me to help her deal with properly. And oftentimes they are the result of something that, to me, is so minor. She wanted a red apple, but didn’t specify, and I handed her a green apple. End. Of. The. World. She’s stuck in imaginary mud on the library steps but Momma is failing to be a mind-reader and thus doesn’t realize H needs saving. End. Of. The. World. Someone looked cross-eyed at her toy and she was thinking she might want to play with it tomorrow. End. Of. The. World.

So I get it. Why it’s called “terrible.” I do. I also realize it doesn’t magically stop when they turn 3. (It gets worse, I’ve been assured!).

But just as she expresses her sad and mad emotions in such big ways, she shows her happy and lovey and excited and compassionate and empathetic emotions in big ways. She’s constantly showering me in hugs and kisses, as well as J and B. Every other sentence out of her mouth seems to be, “I just love you so much, Momma.” She’s so in tune with me and has been the tiny person wrapping her arms around me when I’ve been out of sorts dealing with this lead business. She’s reassuring me that everything is going to be okay.

She gets so excited about everything. She squeals in delight when she receives mail. She was so genuinely thrilled when she opened a stack of books for Christmas. We’re going to the library today? Hooray! Everything is fun and exciting and worth jumping for joy over.

She’s (typically) gentle with her baby brother. When he goes to touch the TV and she knows that we’ve stopped her from that, she says in the sweetest voice, “Oh, lovey, you mustn’t touch that. It could fall on you and hurt you.” Or when he is being aggressive and hits her, she’ll say, “Ow, that hurts me. Hitting isn’t nice, B. We don’t hit. Would you like to give me a high 5 instead?” And this affirms that gentle and non-punitive parenting was the right change for us.

She’s the tiny little girl with a mighty voice who wasn’t afraid to call out a bellowing dad in front of Old Navy for yelling at his upset toddler by informing him that “yelling isn’t nice” and he was making the boy sad. I’d never been so damn proud of her lack of filter.

Which gets me to the 2 year old lack of filter. For the first time since she was born I have this amazing, beautiful, unfiltered view straight into her soul. She says anything and everything on her mind. She knows nothing about political correctness. She has no desire or capability to be malicious or hurtful. Just honest. She’s purely honest.

Once, as she toted her colored baby doll around, a friend asked her if the baby was hungry. She looked at said friend, blankly, and replied, “No, he’s just black.” I laughed so hard I cried.

One fantastic grocery trip I got to listen to her tell me, “Oh, look, Mommy. That’s a boy. He has a penis. Oh, there’s a girl. She has a vulva!” And it was in that overly loud toddler voice, so everyone heard. Everything. Fantastic. And despite trying to tell her that is wasn’t wholly appropriate for us to talk about genitalia in public, especially other people's, she didn’t stop. She only replied with, “We’re just talking, Momma. We’re not touching any penises!”

She has no problem calling me out when I’m being less than kind. I’ve heard, “You’re not being nice, Mommy,” more than once. And, “Do you just need a hug?” which is what I ask her when she’s getting cranky.

I love that she can communicate all of her wants and needs and thoughts without that infant cry and babble. She spoke quite well much earlier than the norm, but age 2 seemed to perfect her language.

She used the word “synonymous” once and I nearly peed my pants.

It’s been amazing to be a part of and witness the drastic transformation that one short year can do to a 2 year old (and her parents! A good friend so kindly told me I went from looking like I was 15 to over 30…so I aged 15 years in less than one!).

The most humbling of all was learning that I can’t control her. Or anyone. As human beings, even as parents, we do not have the ability to control any one, not even our children. Sure, you can yell, threaten, smack, whatever. But there is no guarantee that your child would change and give you control. And honestly, would you want them to? You’d just be setting them up to learn to give up control to anyone who bullies them in life (because, if we’re being honest, yelling, threatening, and spanking are nothing more than bullying). And no one wants that.

2 year olds are learning to push and test boundaries. It’s how they function as human beings. But they also easily and happily teach you that exerting control on the world, on people, is something that simply cannot, and should not be done.

You just have to learn to let go. Roll with the punches. You will never win an argument with your 2 year old, at least not in a manner that is truly successful and beneficial for their mental and emotional (and possibly physical) health, as well as your own. So laugh instead.

If you embrace it, 2 is awesome. 2 is phenomenal and fun. 2 is insightful.

Turns out, 2 isn’t quite as terrible as some would have lead me to believe. But I guess it’s all a matter of perspective. Glass half full kind of thing.

My house might look like a frat party has been thrown the night before – toilet paper everywhere, a baby doll swimming in a toilet of yellow water, sippy cups strewn everywhere, dirty clothes in every nook and cranny possible, crushed up crackers and smashed blueberries every other step you take, curtains literally pulled out of the wall, crayon drawings covering the walls.

But if you’re willing to just take a deep breath, smile, cherish this brief time in the grand scheme of things when you get to parents an amazing 2 year old, then it’s all okay.

Because 2 year olds are amazing.

Let the mommy guilt go

A friend of mine and I were commiserating over mommy guilt the other day. She has two boys, ages 5 and 2. She'd recently had "the circumcision talk" as she put it, with her oldest, explaining, upon his questioning, why he (C) is circumcised and little P is not. She said it kills her everytime she sees what she allowed happen to C.

I, of course, told her my favorite motto, "When you know better, you do better." She wasn't educated  about circumcision with her first. She was with her second and thus she did better. We all make mistakes. We all learn things as time goes by. But we can't dwell on the woulda shoulda couldas.

Who has time for that?

But, par the course of my life, I wasn't looking at things this way prior to this conversation.

I confessed to her that I'm often riddled with guilt because I pierced H's ears (her body, her choice). I feel terrible when I think of how I night weaned her so young per some terrible advice or how I was constantly trying to get her to sleep through the night or sleep on her own. When she was B's age I was far less flexible and much more rigid. I actually thought obedience was a good expectation.

I've obviously done none of these things to B. He was born perfect (like H), no penile mutilation or holes in his body to stick little boppits simply because I find it to be aesthetically pleasing necessary. He's never slept in a crib, has only recently started sleeping part of the night on his own. He nurses through out the night. I've never smacked his hand and will neve battle a time-out war with him.

I have dealt with a lot of guilt over how differently my children have spent the first 18 months of their lives. Guilty because H deserved better.

But you know what, I was doing the best I knew how. Was it right? Hell no. But I was constantly learning. Willing to learn. As was J. I was willing to accept that I didn't know it all, or know it best, and was/am open to constantly learning new and sometimes better ways and information.

So I will never claim to have done things "right" with H (or B for that matter). I will never defend my mistakes.

I know I will someday have to explain to H that Momma made a choice to aesthetically alter her body, and that it wasn't my right to do so. And even if she ( like me) doesn't seem to mind at all, I will still ask her forgiveness. It's the least I can do when I didn't bother to ask her consent.

I've done a lot of things wrong. And no guilt weighs heavier or pulls tighter on your heart strings like mommy guilt. And mommy guilt seems to be rampid amongst this era of moms who are on information over load. But I don't have the time or energy to hold onto it. I will make my amends when it's appropriate, I will ask my children's forgiveness.

But I will forgive myself.

Always.

I deserve it.

And so do you.