Does anyone else feel guilty about not feeling guilty?
I first noticed the phenomenon when I stopped breastfeeding (or, rather, stopped pumping 117 times a day to produce enough breast milk to bottle feed my little won’t-latch-on baby boy) after four months. Mommy culture had led me to believe that breast is best, that I should feel some level of shame about my decision to rescue my poor nipples, spare myself a second bout of mastitis, and switch to formula. But I didn’t feel ashamed. I felt relieved and free: I was able to sleep through the night without waking up every four hours to engorged breasts, my nipples stopped bleeding, my B-cups blessedly went back to B-cups, I stopped feeling generally grossed out about all things boob, and also… My baby loved formula just as much as breast milk.
But then I started feeling a little niggling. This feeling of Wait, why don’t I feel guilty? Oh God, I feel guilty that I don’t feel guilty! I accepted that maybe I wasn’t as good a mom as the mothers who continued breastfeeding (or pumping) a baby even though it made them feel physically sick — and by “good,” I mean “self-sacrificing” and “patient.” But then I started thinking: What if I wasn’t as good a mom as those who felt guilty about the fact that they stopped breastfeeding?
The familiar feeling came back last week, which marked Miles’ first week of daycare. My husband and I were ready to work from home rather than work from home while chasing after a 13-month-old who can kind of walk but really just waddles around like a drunken 25-pound adult and enjoys pulling every single napkin and Ziploc bag out of the drawer that he can miraculously reach. So even though we had some fears about Covid, we decided it was time.
I felt kind of guilty dropping him off the first day (key words: kind of). His skeptical little face, his hesitancy to step over the threshold into the classroom, the fact that I was leaving him with two full-sized strangers and eight tiny ones. I felt similarly the next few days–marginally guilty, but honestly not really and definitely less guilty than everyone said I would be and less guilty than I expected to be.
I heard my husband talking to his parents on the phone that first Monday. They must have said, “How long is Miles staying in daycare the first day?” My husband said, “As long as Dana can stand it, probably only a few hours.” I laughed and nodded in agreement, but inside I knew I would keep him there for seven to eight hours and feel oh so free.
This morning marked the start of Miles’ second full week of daycare. When I handed him to the teacher, he wailed. So I took him back and stood in the hallway for a few minutes, telling him it was going to be okay, I’d be back for him at the end of the day, I love him to the moon and back. When I handed him to the teacher a second time, he threw his head back, cried and clutched my sleeve. As she pulled him away, he refused to let go. But I pried his chubby little fingers off my shirt, said goodbye and walked away.
I did feel a twinge of guilt, but I also knew he’d calm down in about 30 seconds, and I soothed myself by reminding myself I was leaving my child in a land of toys and orange slices, not a coal mine.
I felt that now-familiar feeling — guilty about not being guilty — as soon as I walked in my front door, unencumbered by the 13-month-old growth that so often weighs down my left hip. I was happy to be able to work without feeding him and playing with him at the same time. I was excited to do yoga at lunchtime. I was relieved to go about my daily activities all by myself. I didn’t feel guilty.
Should I feel ashamed of that? Deep down, I know I shouldn’t. I’ll keep reminding myself of that as the weeks go on and I continue feeling nothing but free when I’m not next to my son.