Guilty Until Proven Innocent

The other day, I finally got around to dropping my elementary kids’ Spring pictures back off to the office. I’ve had them sitting in my kitchen for about two weeks now, torn between the nagging duet of thoughts in mind…one taunting me that even if they never come out of the “picture box” I’ll always be able to look back and remember when, and the other screaming in protest that, thanks to my iPhone, my children are all well documented at every age, I do not have to bankrupt myself for memories, and who really wants those ridiculous fake backgrounds anyway.

Even though I talked myself into the more sensible option, I still felt the Mom guilt wash over me like a cold shower as I reluctantly placed the photo packages into the secretary’s hand.  (Hey, I was determined enough not to buy them that I didn’t even trust my children to get them to their homeroom teachers, lol.). I felt like I was betraying my children and their childhood innocence.  My actions were signaling to them that their teeth gaps and messy hair and unfortunate choice of picture day outfits were not enough to be cherished and preserved.  That they are not worth $15 per sheet.  In the childhood memories justice system, we the children, find the defendant, Mom, GUILTY!!

Well, I want to file an appeal!!  Guilt is an emotion with which I am far too acquainted.  I know this is a topic that has been discussed ad nauseum as fellow moms try to find that perfect balance between neglect and overindulgence, excitement and disappointment, good and bad, right and wrong.  But today, I am putting my own unique thoughts and experiences out into the universe hoping that something good will come of it.  Ha, as guilty as I feel, this post may have to end up being a series!

Thanks to the lens of social media, every day I have the perfect ruler for me to determine exactly how much I do not measure up.  All of my friends’ children are awesome – some graduate at the top of their class. Some kill it in athletics.  Some are well-loved by their friends.  Some have never not had a date of Friday night. Some have started their own businesses at 10 years old.  Some are going on missions (and are happy about it).  Some are getting married in the temple.  Some are curing cancer….Nah, not really, but it sure feels that way sometimes.

My children (as a whole – what is applicable to one may not apply to others), on the other hand, struggle with integrating socially, struggle with identity, are bright but unmotivated, are capable but lazy, are not part of the popular crowd, make many small mistakes and the occasional huge one, don’t care to serve a mission, struggle with their weight, struggle with their self-esteem (too little or too much).  They are average kids with average struggles in an average family.  But somehow society has convinced us all that average is not enough.

While I am happy for my friends and the life stories that they are getting to live and experience, I can’t help but feel jealousy and bitterness from time to time as I sit and wonder why my life doesn’t get to be the same.  Now, of course, my life is filled with a few of those Kodak moments.  But, call me crazy, I choose to not post a lot of those moments on line.  

I kind of live by the philosophy that I can’t fake my life -- meaning, I can’t only post the good parts. In my quest for authenticity, I literally want and crave to identify with other people whose lives are more of a hot mess. If your life is perfect, then we can’t be friends, or good friends at least. 

You see, I have enough people that I can look up to and aspire to be.  I want people who can commiserate and be down in the trenches with me.  Not so that we can complain and whine (the whole misery loves company thing), but so we can strengthen and support each other and offer shoulders to cry on and an arm to lean on as we are working our way out of the depths.  I don’t want to live in the shame of my experiences, I want to know that I am not less than because of them.

Guilt is personal and real and varied.  At this particular time of year, I feel guilty that I wasn’t able to devote as much time to each child throughout the year….helping them with their studies, double checking homework, taking a bigger part in their extracurriculars.  I am a woman stretched thin.  At the end of the day, I am ashamed to say that I have little left to give to my children.  Mostly, I just want to go to sleep.  I’ve always glossed over it by saying I am forcing my kids to be more independent, but that is just a little white lie I tell myself to make it seem a little better.

The truth stings a little bit.  My kids don’t deserve this.  They didn’t ask to be born like little stair steps to a mother who is literally dog paddling her way through life.  They deserve a Mom who can support them in all facets of their life – academics, sports, music, church.  And who does so not because it’s expected, but because that is what brings her joy. I come from a family where my parents were unable to provide the emotional stability that children need to feel important and secure.  I know firsthand the lifelong repercussions that can come from that kind of an environment.  My kids deserve so much better than what I, from a mother perspective, have been able to give them.

Today I spent the first half of the morning feeling guilt that I hadn't made the cute little homemade goodies for my kids' teachers to show them how very appreciative I am of all they are doing to help my children grow and develop themselves.  However, that guilt was soon replaced by the fact that I had let my 8th grader walk out the door in his usual ultra-casual garb instead of the more distinguished outfit befitting a child about to walk to Pomp and Circumstance.  (Clothes were gathered and delivered and child was appropriately dressed when the time came).  Tonight I feel guilty that we didn't celebrate the last day of school with some big wonderful, exciting event.  You know, parties or ice cream treats or amusement parks or a movie or bus stop shenanigans.  Instead I celebrate the fact that I actually made dinner for a change.  (And only two kids didn't eat it.)  

It's weird.  I can't seem to figure out how to wrap this post into a neat little bow and put an end on it.  I could literally write pages of how guilty I feel and over what.  I guess now I should feel guilty that anyone reading actually made it to the end.  But one thing I know, guilt can drive change, positive or negative, I guess.  Perhaps that's why I chose to write this post.  And I imagine, that it is a topic that will be revisited.  Probably more than once. I wish I could adopt a different perspective.  I wish I could see into the future and know that everything turns out alright in spite of me.  But I can't.   But I guess my kids can't ever say I didn't try.  Nor can they say I didn't care.  If caring were a crime, I guess that I'd be GUILTY AS CHARGED.