Two out of my three boys were sick today, as well as baby Abigail, so I went to church alone. It was very weird. The decision for me to go alone was perfectly logical and reasonable, and husband-sanctioned too, but it still felt weird. Admittedly, my schedule was busy enough this Sunday that I didn’t think about it much. I played an instrument for Sunday School, each of the services, conducted choir practice, and together with Leah organized the Junior Choir to play the melodee bells. (I know “melodee” looks silly, but that’s really what it says on the box. Proper names: what can you do?) So Anthony said it made more sense for me to go in and spend the day, and he was right, so I went.
As I mentioned, it was weird to be out alone, but pleasant. It turned out to be a guilty pleasure, too. I’m still convinced that anyone else I know who is a good wife and mother would have stayed home and nursed the children and her husband miraculously back to health with homemade chicken soup. Not just any chicken soup, either. Homemade chicken soup made from a secret recipe that’s been handed down from mother to daughter for generations. With brand-name soda crackers, too. Because that’s what a good and responsible wife and mother does.
On the other hand, it was all just sniffles. Really bad, runny, gross sniffles with a cough, but sniffles nonetheless. It’s no big deal and will run its course. The kids will feel better soon. They didn’t even miss me. Anthony was fine. He even made cheese bread. The house was tidy when I got home. (Tidy. Not necessarily clean, but tidy is the first step!) Abigail was successfully fed formula from a spoon, and the boys were in bed before I even left the church. Everything went fine without me, as I expected it would. A large pot of soup would just be an invitation to have a lot of fun with the rubber ducky collection.
I think this is what they call “mommy guilt”. The feeling that something is wrong with you if you don’t insist on dropping all other responsibilities so that you can be the one to stay with the children. The feeling that all the other mothers you know have you tried and condemned because you didn’t stay home when the children were sick. The feeling that must not love your children enough and don’t do enough for them. The feeling that a good mother wouldn’t be out and about doing things for other people when her children are sick. The compulsion to do everything for the children, all the time, because you’re the woman. Mommy guilt.
Actually, the more I think about it, the more “mommy guilt” looks like pride. Anthony doesn’t do things exactly the way I do, but he takes good care of the children. He wasn’t exactly debilitated today and although he would have liked my company, he didn’t need me. The children were fine without me. Even though I wasn’t here to stress about the state of housekeeping, the house ended up tidier than it usually is on a Sunday night. Perhaps most importantly, it doesn’t matter if anyone thinks worse of me because I left sick children at home with a sick husband today. After all, it’s equally awful for me to assume that someone else is thinking the worst of me, based on nothing more than what I think their expectations of me are. For all I know, they may be green with envy that I have a husband nice enough to take on the care of three children without a second thought. How foolish is it to make a martyr of yourself with the sole motivation of looking good to others? (There is a time and place and motivation for martyrdom, but the case in question is not it.)
Now that I’m thoroughly confused and incoherent, I’ll quit for the moment. Because I really do need to sleep. And figure out if I should actually post this monstrosity of a blog. Hmm. I think I will. Life is too short to indulge in blogger guilt as well as mommy guilt.
Remember, if you hear a chainsaw running outside your window tonight, it’s only Anthony. He's asleep, and in spite of the noise level, at least several miles away.
Sweet dreams!
