Guilt is a 4-Letter Word (Plus One Additional Letter)

There have been a lot of blog entries floating around lately that have dealt with the uber-pressure we moms (consciously or unconsciously) put on each other. Women have raged against the Elf on the Shelf and his buddies the Magic Elves and the mischief that they must make around the holidays. “What did you elf do last night?” is the oft-most discussed topic on the playground and Heaven forbid your kid doesn’t have a unique and hilarious tale to tell. 

I’ve recently seen one mom denounce the “minor” holidays and plead for her fellow women in arms to put down their crafty Pinterest weapons and call a truce. Love notes left in lunch boxes every day of February leading up to V-Day -- and then gifts? I thought Valentines Day was for lovers -- why are we now expected to romance our own kids? Don’t we do that every day by simply allowing them to live in our houses and give them food and clothing? Gifts for Saint Patrick’s Day? What’s to give besides maybe a snake? And now a leprechaun is supposed to visit every night, leaving green pee in the toilet and scattering clovers all over the house? What if you’re not even Irish? Most kids probably think St. Patrick’s Day has something to do with Sponge Bob’s friend. 

Then there are the moms who spout clean-eating and boast proudly of how their kids never even walk down an aisle in the grocery store containing foods tainted with the deadly Blue No.1 and look at you askance if you dare pass your kid a Berry Blue Blast Go-Gurt in their presence. 

I, myself, have written about the infuriating habit moms have of comparing their kids to others academically. No, I don’t care at what “level” your child reads, I’ve still seen him dig into his nose and pop the gooey treasure he found there into his mouth just like the rest of them. 

So, what’s my point? Am I now going to give you a “We’re All In This Together One For All Women Unite” load of hooey? Am I going to suggest that instead of tearing each other down while wearing a smile, a string of pearls and holding a homemade Paleo-approved apple pie we look for ways to encourage each other to simply do what we do best -- love our children? Should I get all sappy and say that being a mother is not defined by the creativity of your child’s Valentine’s Day cards (which, you know you put together yourself while he was off playing his DS), but by the number of times you stop and give him a hug just because you are overwhelmed by the joy that is his presence? 

Or maybe I should simply stop speaking in questions and come to my long-rambling point?

Being a mom is hard. But, guess what -- it’s always been hard. Get over it.

You think this pressure is unique only to us moms of the twenty-first century? You think we’re the only generation to have to hold down full-time jobs while being the family chef/maid/chauffeur/first-aid administrator and disciplinarian? Well, we’re not. 

You think the mothers who lived in little houses on the prairies didn’t feel pressure? You try cooking without a proper stove, washing clothes without a washing machine, sewing all your family’s clothes by hand, while snatching your baby out of the jaws of a marauding coyote while pushing the other child out of the way of stampeding buffalo while dodging the flying arrows being flung at you by angry Injuns. (Okay, so maybe that last one seems a bit non-PC, but you know it happened.) 

Look at the very first mom, Eve, for the love of all that is sibling rivalry. How many times have you broken up a fight between your sons? If it didn’t end in one of them slaying the other, than you’re already one step ahead of our infamous first matriarch.

The pressures of being a mom haven’t changed -- only the manifestations of those pressures. I am forever confounded by the way we moms accept (nay, embrace) this notion of “Mom Guilt” as an integral part of the job. Why do we walk around with the back of our hand to our forehead, sighing heavily and continuously ticking off the exaggeratedly long list of chores we must perform on an hourly basis? We sit around at Book Clubs and benches on the playground and reaffirm to each other that our lives as moms are nothing but guilt-filled, exhausting, thankless routines of woe. 

Is that really how you want to describe the greatest job you’ve ever been blessed to have?

You know what makes me feel guilty? Nothing. Not a darn thing. Maybe it’s a gift or maybe it’s early sign of sociopathic behavior, but I simply don’t buy into the Great Mom Guilt Extravaganza. If my kid pouts and tells me that other kids have leprechauns visit them, I say “bully for the other kids.” If my kid doesn’t have their sandwich cut up into shapes appropriate for whatever bogus holiday is around the corner like the kid sitting next to them, I could care less. And if my kid tries to manipulate me into buying, going, making, doing whatever it is that every other kid has, goes to, owns or does, by saying they will simply die if they don’t get to buy, go, make or do like the other kid’s moms let them buy, go make or do, then I hand them a backpack, an apple and wish them the best of luck. 

No one can make you feel guilty about anything. You do that to yourself. Remorse, sure; regret for something your conscious tells you that you’ve done wrong, go for it. But, guilt is a different and ugly animal. And I don’t like animals enough to keep that one around. Congratulate the mom who can whip up a Creek Indian tee-pee out of the scraps she has in her sewing drawer, but don’t give your lack of tee-pee building skills (or the fact that you don’t even own a sewing drawer) a second thought. Compliment the mom who hand-makes extravagant birthday party favors, but don’t for one minute beat yourself up because you threw a bunch of stuff from the dollar store into a plastic baggie and tied it with a twist tie. 

So you don’t create elaborate birthday cupcakes using fondant and homemade sprinkles. Maybe instead you find yourself in the thankless (yet vital) job of corralling ten rambunctious little leaguers during dugout duty. So you don’t obsessively explore the internet looking for educational crafts to construct with your children that will stimulate their minds and help improve their fine motor skills. Maybe instead you remember that your daughter loves pancakes baked in the shape of Mickey Mouse and lovingly pour those three circles of batter into the skillet on a Saturday morning.

There are a million different ways throughout the year that you demonstrate to your child that he is unique, that he is special and that he is loved. No one -- not even the mom with the idea that has been re-pinned the most -- knows better than you do how to accomplish that. 

I personally like the Christmas elves and have fun moving them about and engaging them in mischievous activities. But, if you don’t -- then don’t. It is highly unlikely that your child will end up firing a riffle from a clock tower screaming, “My Elf on the Shelf never moved!” 

So give yourself a break. Don’t rail against the moms who, in your opinion, raise the bar and over-achieve in the Martha Stewart game. I guarantee there is something that you do that other moms envy and be content that your kids are getting the best -- because it comes from you...their mom. And in the end, you know that if you gave your kid the choice between you or any other craft-making, cupcake-baking, original lullaby-singing, costume-sewing, creatively-themed-birthday-party-throwing mom on this planet, they would choose you. 

And that is enough.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go put the finishing touches on the Pinterest-inspired, kick-ass art room/playroom I have designed for my children -- complete with chevron-patterned bean-bag lounger, hanging hammock chair from Ikea and project table stocked with all the crafty goodness Hobby Lobby has to offer. And when your kids come home and ask you why they don’t have a kick-ass art room/playroom like my kids have and try and manipulate you into feeling bad because all you have to offer is a pack of dollar store Rose Arts and a stack of scrap paper you brought home from the office -- hand them a backpack, an apple and wish them the best of luck.

And then, when they decide that they have a pretty awesome mom already, do whatever it is that you do that makes them smile and feel like they are their mother’s favorite person in the whole world. Because that’s all they really need.