Am I abandoning my baby by refusing to abandon myself?
Starting a new job and inhabiting the land of mom guilt
“You are not failing, you are being failed,”
wrote earlier this week.And I wondered, do these tender words, written to burned-out mothers around the world really apply to me?
Me with my white, female, American privilege and just one healthy, active, perfect toddler?
Me, whose hands know how to titrate just the right amount of medicine to keep your heart beating yet dares to use my hands to write, instead?
Do I deserve to complain about mom guilt and the exhaustion of parenthood when my partner has always been hands-on and continues to pitch in at all hours of the day while somehow managing to work full-time so that I don’t have to?
Is it okay to admit I’m taking a new part-time job not because I need the money but because I desperately need to get out of the house?
Am I abandoning my baby by my refusal to abandon myself?
The terror of transitions and Noah’s increasing toddler tantrums have me on a rollercoaster. To be needed so acutely is both endearing and infuriating. At times, I hope these moments never pass and yet dread them when it feels they never will. I’m horrified by how much time I want (need) away from Noah, so much so that I’d literally rather clean the bathroom than fight through one more naptime, yet I can’t stomach the thought of taking him to daycare, even two days a week.
Am I allowed to long for more support, given the faithful babysitter who shows up four mornings a week so I can focus on my writing, create workshops, and attempt to build a community outside of the three of us? Is there anything more indulgent?
Is it fair to say we need more help even when we have the option (the amazing gift!) of dropping Noah off for weekends with my mom and stepdad? Is it right to complain it’s not enough, to wish that my Dad were still alive or that his other grandparents didn’t live an entire sea and another life away?
Mom guilt weaves a tenacious spell, casting dark shadows over every aspect of life. No small resentment is left unobserved, no raised voice uncalculated when tallying the effectiveness (“goodness”) of mothering. Its demands are constant, the illusions it whispers oh-so-convincing in this tired, delicate season.
It worries that my partner’s occasional burst of frustration will turn into the chronic, toxic anger of my mother. It fears that all the time I’m spending with Noah lacks the essential ingredient of my presence and so will be all for nothing, anyway. It says how dare I consider taking a solo trip away, just for me, and warns that even if I do, I’ll spend the whole time miserable missing my son.
The guilt and anxiety join forces, pointing out the relentlessness of this forever job, this impossible task of not screwing up parenthood, and the immense consequences when I inevitably will.
“I wish I could hug you and hold your hand as I gently dispute the stories sold to us before the babies got here.
The story that the first three months are the hardest. That it gets easier with time. That having three babies is as easy as having two or that the shift from none to one is the hardest. The story that tells you that my truth in all of this should be the same as your truth and that lays guilt on, thick as butter, when that is found not to be true at all,” Zoe soothes.
Because that’s just it. These are all stories. Tales of what it looks like to be a perfect parent, histories of traumas living on in our bodies, and uninvited thoughts and opinions from centuries of oppression and separation.
Stories that say it’s all on our shoulders. That it’s up to the individual (the mother) to protect and provide and unconditionally support human life. These stories place an unbearable burden on the nuclear family to be self-sufficient and rely on purchasing an ever-changing list of consumer goods and services to create an ideal environment where our young ones can thrive.
What these stories don’t add to the equation is connection.
Connection can’t be bought or sold yet it’s the very antidote to guilt and isolation. Relationships are the medicine new parents need to help them cope with another sleepless night. Caring communities are the resource we can’t add to our registry but rely on far more than the latest sound machine technology.
Heartbeats is a community for spiritual creatives, mothers, and messy humans who believe in the power of community. By financially contributing to Heartbeats you are saying yes to collaboration, connection, and creating sacred spaces where we can heal, learn, and honor each other with care. Thank you for your presence here. 💞
When Noah was about 8 months old, my partner fell ill for a week or so. In the interim, I texted a few friends and asked if they wouldn’t mind watching Noah for a few hours so I could meal prep (a job my husband was doing at the time). The first yes came from a co-worker and mother of three.
She showed up at our house and you know what? When she came over I didn’t move into the kitchen to cook while she held Noah. I just sat on the couch in the living room, watching her strong, capable arms soothe my newborn in the rocking chair. We talked for maybe an hour and a half while he slept.
And it was magic.
So often I let myself believe shifting the paradigm of patriarchy and all of its harm is an effort beyond a tired mom like me. I think of the longevity of the systems we are up against and the dynamics of power I’m in no position to fight. It fills me with both rage and overwhelm at the same time.
And then I think about Zoe’s letter, reaching me at just the right moment across the sea. And I think about my co-worker’s willingness to sit with me and hold my baby so that I felt just a little bit less alone. And I remember the groceries my friend ordered from Minnesota and had delivered to our door and the free tickets to the children’s museum our landlady sent in the mail a few months ago.
Small, small incidents of presence, kindness, and care.
“We were never meant to do this all alone,”
gently offers.Her words are a permission slip to grieve what could be (but isn’t yet) and keep showing up to remind each other that we aren’t alone, after all.
Sending you all my love,
Mariah
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Thanks for this reminder, Jacqueline. We’ve said from the first day that the rule is no martyrs in our family…but having come from a long line of them, it’s a hard cycle to break! Grateful for the plentiful examples of women like you and parents everywhere who are modeling how to love and care for another while still caring for ourselves. 💗
My son is grown now but I remember the guilt when I decided to take him to day care for a couple of mornings so I could go to a design class at college. I remember my husband thought nothing of it and said “why don’t you take him everyday?” I was like, what?!! Don’t you know my heart is already breaking with the guilt of wanting some tiny bit of my life for myself? My son grew up just fine and I was a better mom for allowing myself to pursue my passion.