Okay, so I stole the title. But it’s such a good one. And it is so how I feel tonight.

I have never known guilt like I’ve known these last seven years. It is impossible to convey in mere words the sheer gut-wrenching, panic-producing, stomach-acid-creating, I’m-a-complete-failure-let-me-lay-prostrate-on-the-floor-and-and-slit-my-wrists feeling that comes over a woman the moment she first discovers she’s pregnant and doesn’t shake loose, so I’m told, until the day she dies. They slap a cute little nickname on it—Mommy Guilt—but there is nothing cute about it. It is all-consuming. And it will eat you alive if you let it.

Today was a typical example. The first grader was home with pink-eye, but the phrase “was home” is used very loosely in our household. “Staying home” from school today meant we went for our morning walk, went to the doctor, went to the pharmacy, ran into Grandma at the pharmacy, invited Grandma to join us for lunch with Poppa, went in Grandma’s van to meet Poppa so I could get something notarized at his office, had lunch together, and, finally, came home and “stayed home.” Until the grocery trip after dinner…

Of course, since we’d run around all morning, nothing had gotten done at home. Since I work part-time-full-time (more Mommy Guilt), this is a bigger deal than it sounds. Nothing picked up, no bills paid, no calls or emails returned, no projects worked on. Nothing. And after being gone 90% of the week last week, I’m still trying to catch up from the previous week’s picking up, bills, emails, and projects, to no avail. So, I get the toddler down for a nap, head for the office with my mental to-do list on overload, and the first thing I hear is,

“Momma, will you play with me?”

My stomach sinks. Nothing triggers Mommy Guilt like the pleading tone of a child asking to be played with. Especially when you can’t stand playing with your children.

Gasp.

There, I said it. I hate playing with my daughter. AAAAAGHHH. Seeing it in print makes me want to run from the room screaming. Mothers aren’t supposed to say that. Still more Mommy Guilt. But it’s true.

There are many things I love doing with my children. I love to sit and talk with them. I love to sing to them. I love to go places with them and do activities with them. I love to read with them, play games with them, make music with them. I’m not a bad mom. I swear. (This is the first sign of Mommy Guilt—the compulsion to swear to people you are not a bad mom.) But, quite frankly, I do not enjoy playing pretend with my children. And it’s not just my children—I don’t enjoy playing pretend with other people’s children, either. I abhorred that part of babysitting—I don’t like to be told how to pretend. Makes me crazy. And this is what my daughter wants most from me.

This is what she asks for this afternoon. This is what she asks for several times, daily. And this is the one thing that I am loathe to give her. I would rather cross everything off my to-do list than play Barbie’s with my daughter. I hate that about myself. I hate the frustration that builds to a near-panicked frenzy when it becomes apparent that I cannot accomplish both my to-do list and my daughter’s. I resolve to myself that the next afternoon I’m home, I will play with her. Then the next afternoon I’m home, I make the same guilt-ridden resolution. But the issue never resolves.

I know in my heart there is much I do well as a mother. But I worry that if it is not what is important to her, it won’t matter in the long run. Will she remember that I would talk with her every night before bed, or will she remember that I rarely played Barbie’s with her? Will she remember me constantly telling her, “I love you,” or will she remember me constantly telling her, “Momma’s got to get her work done first?” Will she remember me writing her stories and playing cards and going to the zoo, or will she remember me at my computer?

Then there are the real questions. Will the effort I’ve put in be enough to sustain our relationship through the teenage years? Does she really know she is loved and valued? Do my actions show it more than my words? Will it be enough to keep her from dabbling in sex and substances and selling her soul to please other people? Have I done the best possible job I can? Will it pay off in the long run? She adores me now—will she when she’s older? And is it lame to pray for the strength to be able to play Barbie’s with your daughter?

There are no answers. Or, rather, the answers are out of my hands. The Lord taught me long ago that there is not a bit of it that is up to me, but, much like higher math, it is a lesson I still do not fully understand. So I just pray that, much like the homework, the equation somehow always manages to balance out in the end.

I am not a bad mom.

I am not a bad mom.

I am not a bad mom.

family life motherhood reflection