All in Motherhood/parenting
It seems like being a mom naturally comes with a heaping side of guilt. Guilt about everything from what we feed our babies to leaving them with a babysitter to teaching them how to swear at bad drivers when they are still in diapers. Posts about mom guilt show up all over social media, and in this digital world there are constant reminders that we could be doing better. But why do we all get sucked into the lie of believing guilt naturally comes with being a mom?
I’d like to think I was worried about issues like bullying and social media use and how we are perpetuating bias and prejudice without even realizing it before I had kids, but that would be, at best, stretching the truth. Before I had a tiny human following me around and listening to everything I said I put little thought into how the things I said or did, especially online impacted anyone but me.
Growing a tiny human inside me and pushing him out into the world was the catalyst that helped me see my body in a whole new light. My body grew an entire human being, and I didn’t die when I pushed all nine pounds of him out. If that doesn’t make you appreciate your body, I don’t know what will
My baby is now seven-months old and I recently decided I felt good enough to start weaning off my antidepressants, and when all those feelings of irritability, sadness, exhaustion and hatred for everything came rushing back I felt like a failure. I refilled my prescription and cried. I should be over this by now, I have nothing to be depressed about, I thought.
It is so easy to look at your friends and family and compare your life with theirs. To compare their clean house with your dirty one, their well-behaved children with your screaming monsters, their fit bodies with your still-doesn’t-fit-in-prepregancy-jeans body. But here’s the thing: there is always more to the story. There is always life behind the scenes you know nothing about.
Some days there is nothing else I would rather do than snuggle those babies and be a mom, but more often than not I need more. I need more than days spent washing endless piles of laundry, kissing skinned knees and wiping away tears, more than being called “Mommy” a million times in a day.