One of
the many things no-one warns you about before you become a mother is the guilt
that comes with it.
It’s
difficult to explain and even more difficult to quantify, but it happens
virtually overnight.
Pre-children,
I would feel guilty about stuff now and then, but it could normally be
pinpointed down to a heavy night in the pub.
I’d have
that hungover, jumpy feeling when someone didn’t respond to a text within five
seconds of me sending it. Thinking it must be because I told an inappropriate
gag or attempted a misplaced heart-to-heart the night before.
But
THAT was a walk in the park compared to mum guilt, because, one phone call and
a couple of paracetamol later and I’d be back to normalish again.
Mum
guilt lasts a lifetime.
It’s
that feeling that you’re never quite doing enough. Of anything.
You
need to replicate yourself about ten times to be successful at everything: being
a good parent, making a go of a career, having a social life that extends beyond
‘liking’ an old school friend’s holiday snap of them riding an elephant in
India on Facebook, having a decent relationship where you talk about ‘proper’ things
instead of whether Beth should have gone to Latvia for that boob job on Corrie.
I had
just about learnt to live with the guilt. The buzzy-headed feeling that whilst
I was doing one thing, I was thinking about the hundred other things that I should
also be doing.
But
then a second child comes along. And, massively unfairly, the guilt doubles.
I’d
spent that last 32 months telling my daughter that she was the most important
person in my life. That I loved her more than anyone on the planet.
And now I’ve brought a brand new person into our house and our lives and asked her to budge over. That she is no longer the centre of our world, that she needs to share that pedestal with another person.
Half
the time I can’t even give her a cuddle as I’m breastfeeding the hungriest baby
in East Sussex.
Then
when we do play together, that often means leaving Thomas to lie in his Moses
basket or be strapped to me in a sling. Whereas when Nancy was the same age, it
would be all singing nursery rhymes, baby massage and hours just staring at her
in wonder.
But
very occasionally there’s a shining light.
Like
when I’m sitting on the sofa with both children, no-one’s crying or needing the
loo, and we’re all, in that moment, content.
Now, I
realise the published book and four-bedroom house might have to wait a few
years, but if I can clock up a few more moments like that, then I can, just
for a second, beat the guilts and feel like we’re getting somewhere.
second child syndrome , i remember it well . do you get the feeling that first child is glaring at you thinking "mummy lied , ive not got a little brother or sister to play with , its just that smelly mummy stealer "lol
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