Mom Guilt

I’m convinced I’d have all-consuming and enveloping mom guilt even if I weren’t a mom. There are so many reasons to feel like I’m never quite doing enough for our kids, and coupled with my less-than-charming and exhausting habit of worrying (just ask my husband), I’m in a constant fugue state of burning out and melting down. I’ve known I wanted to be a mom since I was little. In kindergarten, I was voted “Kindergarten Mom.” I babysat all the time. I taught swim lessons. I became a teacher. I read books about parenting; I pray about the way I parent. I ask older women I love and admire about how they parent their children. I run things by my mom. Corey and I constantly discuss why we do the things we do, and evaluate our values and parenting decisions all the time, but I still feel like I’m on the brink of ruining them. Am I showing them enough physical affection while still allowing myself a few moments of sanity each night? Am I building them up enough to build their confidence, or am I building them up too much, giving them an elevated view of their abilities? Do I compliment them enough on their intelligence, effort, kindness, and generosity, or do I mostly tell them they’re cute? Will they become part of the mindless, selfish, close-minded, lazy, poorly-educated (and I don’t mean academically), dregs of society regardless of anything we do? Will they think for themselves, but still think about others? Will they be respectful to their authority without following them blindly? And how do you get them to that point? There are a thousand theories about parenting, and I know I’ve read them all. I take some from here, and some from there; I take what fits our family and our values, and what we deem important. But like the dull ache of a migraine first forming, the worry is still there. What if it’s not enough? What if you irrevocably wound your children? What if in an effort to make them polite, kind, loving, responsible, respectful and God-fearing, you actually turn them into entitled, mean, rude, self-righteous, irresponsible, disrespectful heathens? What if what works for one child doesn’t work for another? What if you’re working full time? What if you’re staying home? What if you DON’T spank your children? What if you do?

See what I mean? And I haven’t even gotten to the hardest of all guilt; it’s called step-mom guilt. Step-mom guilt is characterized by a few common symptoms: one, marrying an incredible kind, handsome and loving man who happens to be divorced with a child; two, over-whelming guilt about your step-child growing up in two homes even though you had nothing to do with that decision; three, constantly evaluating every choice you make regarding said child; four, facing a whole lot of criticism for literally everything you do, or don’t do. That being said, I hit the step-mom jackpot. Gwen was two when I met her, so she truly doesn’t remember life without me in it. She asks me about the day she was born and how she was as a baby, and I have to remind her that I wasn’t there. She doesn’t get all angsty and say, “You’re not my mom!” (at least not yet). She is so easy to love—she’s loving, kind, silly, helpful and thoughtful. I almost cried the first day I met her because she was so. stinking. chubby. and sweet. She had cereal bar all over her face and whispered, “Hi. Hi. Hi.” over and over. She loved me immediately and our bond was quickly formed; she follows me everywhere and wants to dress like me, talk like me; she even wants to have freckles like me. She is a step-mom’s dream, but the title of step-mom is covered in cynicism and bitterness and evilness (thanks, Disney). While Gwen and I have an amazing mother-daughter relationship, the weight of the task is sometimes more than I can bear. But I do. I bear it, because what choice do I have? I bear it because it’s a joy to love her, and teach her, and discipline her. I bear it because I want to. But step-parenting is a role with no real definition and no one way of doing it. I’m an English teacher, so you’d think I’d love open-endedness, analyzing and interpreting (and boy, do I… let me analyze that character, or that imagery, or your facial expression and tone of voice), but when it comes to parenting and loving, Lord, give me a formula. Please, tell me the right way to do it. Think about the fact that nearly 50% of all marriages end in divorce. Then think about this: second marriages have an even higher failure rate than first marriages, and most researchers attribute this to the strain and stress of sharing custody, step-parenting, and difficult-to-handle exes. I must brag that Corey is a wonderful partner to parent with. Most of the time, he is far more easy-going than I am, and can talk me down when I feel exasperated or when I’m killing myself for no reason. He calms me down and reminds me that worrying does nothing. We lucked out on this realm of step-parenting/re-marriaging-hood. That’s a thing, right? But the reality is that second marriages have a whole slew of stresses that first marriages don’t. We have to work even harder than most folks because there are infinitely more nuances to maneuver: implementing routines and expectations (but only half the time), figuring out holiday schedules, signing them up for extra-curriculars, coordinating doctor’s appointments, volunteering at school, figuring out primary residency for school, keeping traditions and family time sacred, etc. While many of those seem more like frustrations than guilt-inducing episodes, for me, they’re laced with fears of not doing enough. Is it fair for us to ask Gwen to adapt to two different environments and parenting styles? Even if it wasn’t, is there really a choice? How do we remain consistent on our expectations while still offering grace? Do we never do fun things with our other children when Gwen isn’t with us? Will she feel left out? Will she feel less part of the family? Will our other children become resentful towards us for having to wait until their sister comes? Will Gwen feel like an outsider among her friends, who right now, all live in one home? The reality is, most of these things I have no control over, yet it doesn’t stop me from worrying. And from feeling guilty.

Does it ever end?

On a positive side-note, I figured out how to do paragraphs, finally :)