Mommy Guilt

By Hyla Molander
Mommy Guilt
By Hyla Molander

I'm trying to finish writing my memoir, Drop Dead Life,

the journey to love after my 29-year-old husband's death.
Struggling to make some money in my children's
photography business. AND be a good wife. A connected
mother. A compassionate friend. But there is this guilt. This
mommy guilt.

Guilt. Mommy guilt. Daddy died guilt. Always the guilt.

Each morning, at 6 a.m., Julian, 2, calls out, "Ma Ma. Ma

Ma? Ma Ma," and the race begins.

Ugh! I shouldn't have stayed up so late.

Four kids, like newly hatched spiders, crawl up my skin.

They nip at my arms, my shoulders, my feet, and I want to
flick them off of me. I want five minutes — just five
freaking minutes — to make my coffee, before I get them
ready for school.

"Clothes on, hair brushed, then come to the table for

breakfast," I command, but they push and shove one
another, completely ignoring my orders.
"Ewwwwwww!" Tatiana, 8, screams, as she holds her
Hello Kitty toothbrush an inch from my swollen brown
eyes.

"Tati, WHAT are you doing?"

"Mommy, Juju just put my toothbrush in the toilet!"

"OK, well, use a different one. Come on, Tat, we're already
running late!"

"But he used it, Mommy. Right after he put it in the toilet.

JuJu brushed his teeth with poo-poo water."

Fine. Great. Worse things have happened.

My dehydrated hands move quickly from one lunchbox to

the next, conscious of each child's preferences. One
dinosaur pack, one High School Musical, one purple
"Girls Rule," one 12-year-old's eye-roll-inducing brown
paper snack bag.

And, just as I zip up "Girls Rule," Keira, 6, kicks her foot

against the wall. "But, Mommmmmy! I've already told
yooouu!! I don't like turkey, or cheese, or peanut butter, or
pasta, or vegetables!"

"Keira, really, what else is there?"

"Sweets. Only pack me things that are sweet."

As if I will ship her off with a pan of brownies.

Why can't they just be grateful for what I give them? Don't
they know that I was an actual person before I had kids?

Then, of course, when they hear my husband's footsteps on

the stairs, the kids fall in line like obedient soldiers.

"You making it easy on Mommy?" Evan asks. He doesn't

yell, he doesn't lose his patience, and he certainly NEVER
raises a hand at any of them, but they listen. They do not
suck the energy out of him because he feels no guilt over
his requests.

So, what is the point of this guilt? This mommy guilt. Why
do I let it drain me? Why can't I just accept the fact that I
am only one person?
I fling their backpacks on the bottom of the stairs, take a
breath, and run through my mental check-list: homework
folders, library books, fieldtrip permission slip, extra
diapers, share-day puppy, pacifiers, baseball gear.

All there.

But is it enough? Am I enough?

They know my writing is meaningful to me, they know I

want to help other people by finishing this book, but I can’t
help feeling that I am somehow neglecting my children, so
I let them get away with too much.
I need to do more than just threaten to take privileges away.
I need to be more assertive, to follow through.

It’s time I end this frustration.