The Guilt Will Eat You Alive

 

 

 

I grew up in a loving, though not perfect, household.  When I was very little, my dad spent a lot of time reading with me every night before bed. As a result, I would read non-stop and my reading level was quite a bit higher than that of my peers.  Every year he took me to a local kiddie theme park and every Christmas he would take me shopping so I could “buy” gifts for other people (with his money) and buy myself something as well of course.  He grilled out, played games (The Game of Life for years before Scattergories took over and sometimes Chess or Scrabble or Clue).  He constantly kept up with our yard and fixed everything in our house that ever needed fixing. 

My mother came home every night from work and cooked dinner (though, she even admitted years later, she was not the best cook).  Every Saturday she would clean the house, change the sheets, make sure all laundry was done, folded and put away, vacuum, dust, etc.  Every Sunday she went to church. Every school year she and I went shopping for new clothes.  She always played the games with us. She was the “holiday mom” as we liked to call her.  Every holiday, she would stress and fly around the house making sure every last detail was perfect. The table had to be set meticulously. There were little serving platters with pre-dinner veggies. Fancier glasses were ready for use as was the good china (was it actually china or just a really expensive plate set? Who knows).  She made sure we were each dressed appropriately for guests. She took me to and from my CCD classes, my dance classes, play rehearsals, sports and any other obligations I had to attend to. 

Together they both supported me in the best way they could. Together they were my world.

 I always imagined that this is the kind of upbringing that I would instill on my own children.  Two, loving, supportive parents that spend most of their non-working time just making sure life is good and clean and warm. I imagined sitting in the backyard with my family, maybe enjoying a fire, while the kids played volleyball or badminton.  I imagined family vacations and trips to the zoo.  I imagined family dinners with laughter and closeness, the kind I felt for my family growing up.  I imagined a nice, well put together house that was clean and maybe a little sparse, but well loved and lived in.

Instead, I often feel that I have given my children the opposite and that guilt eats at me every single day.  There is no describing to people how much thought I give this – honestly it’s amazing I don’t have ulcers on top of ulcers.  I beat myself up constantly, because I know where my short-comings have been and I know what I have put them through for so many years.  I know so much of what they have missed out on and how much control I could have had over that.  I know that I love them to the ends of the earth, even when I’m yelling, even when I’m hurt. They are the stars that light up my sky and I am so sorry. I am so sorry for everything I didn’t or couldn’t give them. I’m so sorry that I spent so much time giving them some things that I neglected others. I am so sorry if they have ever, even for a moment, felt like I haven’t given them a safe space.  I want them all to know that even if I get angry, even if they know I might disapprove, I am ALWAYS their safe space.  I have made a million mistakes and I am sure to make a million more but no one loves them the way that I do.