Shirt (Let's forgive Target the grammatical error.)
It can be about anything. Everything. And nothing.
My kid will only eat Ritz crackers. I use too many diapers. I don't buy the right brand. My kid needs to have more independent time. My kid should be around kids more. My kid still has eczema all over her ankles. My kid is bipolar about napping. Am I being selfish for wanting to run errands without her? Am I being too needy to want a Mother's Day Out? Maybe I should play with her instead of doing the dishes. Maybe I should do the dishes instead of playing with her. I work too little. I work too much...
In true Miley fashion, I can't stop. I won't stop.
In the muck of mom guilt, I'm very clearly not resting in Jesus. Instead of entrusting my child's needs to the God who created her and knows her better than I ever will, I'm relying on my own strength and foresight to give her everything she could possibly need. Like my pre-pregnancy bra, mama ain't gonna ever fill that cup. Yet still, I try.
It's an easy problem to diagnose, but not one so easily cured. And to be honest, I'm not sure what the real answer is. Maybe some better mommy blogger has the answer for me. But I'm still stuck in the trenches of learning that it's OK to wean my baby from nursing (and no, she isn't going to die), and it's OK to leave her in someone else's care (and no, she isn't going to die), and it's OK to sometimes feel like I'm going to pull all my hair out (and no, neither of us is going to die).
Moral of the story? I do a lot of things wrong. A lot, a lot. (She can send me the therapy bills later.) But maybe I also do some actual good for her, too. She's alive. She's happy. She's fed (most days, anyway). It could be worse. We mammas wag our fingers at ourselves all day long, maybe it's time we collectively cheered for ourselves, too. So tomorrow when you have the hankering to get down on yourself because you just plopped your kid in front of the TV so you could have a whoppin' ten minutes to get something done, why don't you give yourself a little pat on the back for making it this far in the parental colosseum and for loving your baby something fierce.
You go, Glen Coco. You go.