Crime and Punishment
I’ve tackled the issue of ‘mom guilt’, as Dr Leah calls it, before. But it’s a recurring one, for me at least.
An article tweeted by Carers UK, even though it was to do with an elderly couple, offered me some comfort yesterday. You can read it here. I suppose, as well as the mom guilt, I have what I’m going to call ‘carer guilt’. And ‘teacher guilt’. Even ‘housekeeper guilt’. In fact, especially housekeeper guilt. It looks like I live in a small local branch of Toys R Us circa 1987.
And that’s before Twig does his infamous impression of the Andrex puppy with my bulk-bought loo roll.
Anyway. Every victory in our house, no matter how small, is a major thing. In the last few weeks (I can use it as a timely excuse for the lack of blogging) we’ve partially cracked potty-training (thanks be to jeebus) and started reading. Alright, that might not seem groundbreaking to some of you. But throw in the mix that my little genius has an ASD and I’m homeschooling him singlehandedly… and that I have cream carpets. What the hell was I thinking?
So yes, the good times are good. But the bad times still drive me up the wall. Like when the mood is set for the day by a hissyfit because a cookie is broken in half. Aren’t they meant to pick up and reflect our moods, rather than the other way around?
As the writer of the aforementioned article says, “I’m not the most patient person in the world.” I’m really not. Sure, it’s nice to take the credit for five minutes when Twig accomplishes something that is, by his standards, amazing. It’s even nicer to realise that hey, I actually did teach him this all by myself! I’m not a failure as a mother/teacher/bathroom assistant.
Just as a housekeeper.
Sometimes, too, it’s gratifying when new acquaintances, or even old, marvel at just how many professions you cram into 24 hours and you brush it aside with a serene, saintly smile and murmur something about how it’s all worth it. Then you go home and find out Picasso’s latest masterpiece is a mural all over your kitchen cabinets.
Baby steps. Baby steps. For the parents, that is. The kids have it all figured out. A conspiracy if you ask me.