Mommy Guilt

It was a cold day, so I felt justified in pulling my winter hood up over my ears. It was to shelter me from the cold, sure, but it was also to shelter me from people. Although I consider myself an extrovert, my tank was somehow rather empty.

I had no choice but to sit in the open space of the playground. I was responsible for two little girls who were having a great time pretending to be grown-ups. But I didn’t want to play grown-up. I didn’t want to “adult” so I tilted my head downward and stared intently on my Kindle. I could see my own reflection on the shiny black screen and decided that I did indeed look rather unapproachable. That’s the look was I aspiring to achieve.

Soon other families trickled in to the playground. Mostly the intruders consisted of young mothers and their toddlers. Their high pitched voices and enthusiastic cadence irritated me. They laughed and ran around the playground playing tag and hide-n-seek with their energetic toddlers. They were engaged. I was playing Woody Blocks.

I begin to feel self-conscious. I could feel their judgmental stares pierce through my wind-proof armor. I was being labeled, or so I thought, as “one of those moms.” I was going to be used as an example of how NOT to parent at the next MOPS meeting. I could just hear them retell the story of this horrible mom who sat and stared at the screen while her children were playing independently. I could hear them pump their own ego as they would retell the story of how they weren’t going to allow screen time to rob them from interacting with their children. I was what was wrong with modern society, I was sure.

I didn’t look-up. I didn’t want to make eye-contact. I did, however, reach a new high score and celebrated a little in my head.

I glanced up once because I could no longer hear the voices of the little ones in my keep. I saw them sitting quietly and knew they were okay. I could go back to my game. I accidentally made eye-contact with a former cheerleader, I’m sure. She was young and bouncy and gave me an awkward smile as she gathered her son. I’m sure she was going to go bake cookies or maybe teach him how to play the piano that afternoon. Or perhaps it was the day to prepare for the SAT since you can never prepare too early for such an important and future shaping test.

I begin to silently defend myself. I wanted to tell them that I was a home-school mom and was exhausted. I had been bonding with my children, all three of them, all week. We had learned about the Iliad and the Odyssey and had done a fair share of algebra. We had learned all there is to know about topographical maps and photosynthesis. I had done laundry, made dinner, washed dishes, taken care of the dog and paid bills. I had comforted a child who had her feelings hurt and had chatted politely with the elderly lady at Safeway. I was a good mom. But not just right that second.

Then I realized something. I had been judging them. I really had no idea what they were thinking about me. Maybe they were sympathetic or maybe they were apathetic. I don’t know. I’m thankful none of them told me. But I was doing the very same thing that I was accusing them of doing. I was judging them. I was allowing my own guilt or insecurities to give them a voice. A voice they may not have even owned. I was producing conversations that may never materialize in the real world. They may not have been judging me, but it is clear that I was judging them.

I don’t really consider myself to be an insecure or judgemental person, but I realized in that moment that I not only was I judging others, but that I was judging myself and blaming random strangers. I realized that it was my own guilt or insecurities that were the enemy, not the bouncy mom going down the slide. I lifted my face this time, still hoping to avoid eye-contact, but feeling brave enough to handle it if I did. I was ready to face my imaginary accusers. That, and the battery on my Kindle had died. But nevertheless, I faced them. I looked around at my beautiful surroundings. I took in the moment and saw a young mother with a car seat and two toddlers struggling down the pathway. I realized that she was probably feeling overwhelmed. I saw a grandmother that was having a hard time keeping pace with her preschool aged grandson as he sprinted toward the “big slide.” I saw people who were struggling, each in their own way and at a different stage in their life. Their struggles were different, but they were as real as mine. The struggling mom was probably doubting her ability to care for three young kinds and was physically drained. The grandmother was probably doubting her physical abilities to keep track of that rambunctious preschooler.

Suddenly I felt connected. I realized that the awkward smile of the mom earlier in the day might have been a look of jealousy. My kids were old enough to care for themselves, for the most part, and I could relax on my device. Maybe she was envious of me. I realized that I can’t assume what others are thinking or feeling or what they are thinking about me. And I don’t have to know. My identity isn’t found in other people’s opinion of me. My identity is in Christ and if I am truly striving to do my best and live my best and leave the rest in God’s hands, it doesn’t really matter what random-perky-super-mom thinks of me. I know who I am and more importantly, I know who I am in Christ. And that’s all that really matters.