Mothers Guilt

There is a crippling disease that is at epidemic proportions. But there are no telethons devoted to it. There are no research groups searching frantically for the cure. No marathons are run to raise public awareness. There are no big headlines calling for the world’s attention. As a matter of fact, it is usually not talked about at all even among its victims. What is this crippling disease, you ask? It is simply called “mother guilt”.


Those of us that have suffered the sometimes paralyzing symptoms of this affliction know without a doubt that we have ruined our children’s lives forever. Our children will be the first to say so. Our husbands often confirm this. Our friends may offer support but the fact is that that deep down they want to believe that whatever you did is worse than them because they are fellow sufferers.

It’s amazing what can cause us to feel this guilt. I remember well my first attack. My firstborn was only a few days old when I decided to cut his fingernails. (Actually, he was born with claws.) Confidently, I picked up the cute little tiny nail clippers and proceeded to cut the tips of his tiny fingers. He waved his hand around as he screamed in protest. Drops of baby blood went everywhere. I felt like an axe murderer.

There was the time I stood taking pictures of my eight week old second son. He was in his seat on the kitchen table. He had dropped a toy and was bending over in an attempt to recover it. I was fascinated by the fact that he was trying to scoot his seat closer to the toy. I mean, how many 8 week olds do that? I continued snapping pictures while he scooted himself right off the table!

I could share hundreds of such moments but what I want to share is the CURE that I found. Luckily, it came fairly early in my mothering career. It came from a story I heard from another mother. She was a very busy woman with a large family. Every Saturday for years found her trying to do all the needed Saturday things as well as wanting to get the Sunday things ready, too. No matter how hard she tried she seemed to find herself ironing white shirts every Sunday morning. She felt guilty for years until her oldest left home. His first letter home said these words, “Mom, I miss sliding my arms into a freshly ironed shirt just before church. That always felt like Sunday to me.”

I vowed than and there that I would banish mother guilt forever. It helps that I bought a plaque that said, “So I’m NOT supermom, deal with it.” It hangs in a prominent place in my home.

That’s the view from my side of the street. What’s yours?