Guilt

I am a half-Irish (lapsed) Catholic who also happens to be an only child. So to
say that I have a lot of experience with guilt would be an understatement.

Without a doubt, some of the worst guilt of my day strikes me during the period
of 9 to 5, Monday to Friday. I know all moms work, but I happen to have a
traditional 9-to-5, out-of-the-house, coffee-breaks-at-10-and-2 kind of job. Which
means I wake up at approximately 6:20 every day. I am out of the house by 7:35
(7:45 means NO daycare parking to be had) and at my desk by 8:30. I leave my
desk by 4:30 and am on Lakeshore Boulevard by 4:45 (4:55 means an extra 20
minutes in gridlock), and at the daycare by 5:20, and home by 5:40. We eat as
a family, most days — yes, I will accept a pat on the back for that — and then
bed and bath are completed by 7:00. Phew. It is a tight schedule, but it works.
If “works” means we all survive and sometimes manage to enjoy ourselves. (Side
note: The slow cooker has saved my life.)

So, guilt. Today as I walked to the photocopy room, I suddenly wished W was
there. I wished we were holding hands. I wished I could see him, just for a
second. It wasn’t a fleeting moment; it was a real, palpable wish.

Across from my office there is a grocery store where I buy something — lunch,
milk, lottery tickets — three days out of five. While I am in the store I spend most
of my time talking to babies. For real. There are so many moms in the grocery
store in the middle of the day, it is unreal. Most of the babies are little and in their
car seats (wistful sigh for the days when I could grocery shop with W strapped
into a seat), and I am okay with those babies. I recognize that the mommies
are on mat leave. But sometimes the babies (okay, they are children) look like
W. They are his age. They are precious and precocious and running down the
aisles. They are adorable and funny and I almost burst into tears some days
wishing W was there. Wishing that I could be in the store at 11:00 a.m. on a
Wednesday with my sweet, precocious boy.

Then I realize I am staring and I move along to the pre-packaged salads.

As you have read, W loves daycare. He is happy and fine, but am I? Am I okay
with things? Should I feel guilty for even thinking about MY happiness? Probably.
I miss my little guy so much sometimes at work that my heart aches. Sometimes
I secretly wish that my husband and son would just magically appear at my desk
after a meeting. Is this normal? I don’t know anymore.

I have a co-worker, whom I love, who has two boys. She says the silver lining of
work is eating lunch and peeing whenever you want. She is right. But it is sad.
That is our silver lining, which is…I don’t know what it is. On weekends, I eat
whenever I can, and W comes to pee with me, and I am actually pretty okay with
it.

I don’t know what the future holds jobwise, but as the words “Toddler Room”
and “Preschool” start getting tossed around, I realize I am making spreadsheets
and PowerPoints instead of Play-Doh figures and bubbles in swim class.
And today it is weighing on me. Maybe it won’t next week, but today I would
have traded it all for W to magically appear beside the photocopier, but even
during the WORST barf-fuelled, hellish moments I have NEVER wished for the
photocopier to magically appear.

-Tightrope Mama

[image source: University of the Arts London]