I originally posted this entry back on January 4, 2008. Then I took the post down, because I didn’t want to risk my mom reading it and having to deal with the aftermath of that. Now that I have a web space that is not known to her or any of my other family members, for that matter, I feel more comfortable putting these thoughts back out there.
These issues have resurfaced again, and I have no doubt they will continue to do so for the rest of my life.
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I’ve blogged off-and-on for over five years now. That might seem like a long time, but I hadn’t really realized the full potential of this medium as community until over the last year or so. When I started reaching out to and really interacting with other bloggers, reading posts, commenting, clicking links, finding new bloggers, I found that the majority of those I was finding were mothers, mostly new mothers. And they had a lot to say. Sometimes I found their posts about motherhood and parenting to be lacking a certain something…not because what they were saying was invalid or unimportant, but that I just wasn’t in the same head space as they were at the time.
The posts that told funny little stories and anecdotes got through, and I enjoyed them. The birth stories I read struck me as particularly powerful in all their self-deprecating glory, because these women were sharing some of the most private and inspired moments…seconds, really, of their lives with the Internet at large, with anyone who happened to stumble upon their words of wisdom and joy.
But there were other stories, too. Posts that dealt with not-so-nice emotions like sorrow, depression and most of all guilt. Moms feel guilt. You know what? So do daughters.
I’ve been sitting on the child-free fence for quite awhile, and now that my legs are dangling over the side of the fence that faces the playground, I’m beginning, already, to experience twinges of daughter guilt. You see, ever since I was a little girl I have felt a deep need to make sure that my mom is okay. Physically, emotionally, financially okay. I’ve spoken at length to my therapist about my need to “fix” things for my mom, not that they are so horribly wrong that they need fixing, but I’m slowly coming around to another very important realization: I can’t fix it. I don’t need to.
Giving up the need to be responsible for my mother’s happiness in life is a tough task, and I’m getting there, and I hesitate to even post this post, because it means I’m jumping into some uncharted blog waters (for me). The thought of possibly having a baby also means that I will have to spread myself between the two of them, my mother and my child. I really do believe that this could be the hardest thing I will ever have to do in this life. I don’t know if I’ll be able to take care of them both, not that this is an expectation of my mom, necessarily, just an old habit I have that I’m working on breaking. I know, I know, I’m not even pregnant and I’m already anticipating a new form of daughter-guilt. I should just shove it away until it’s necessary, if it’s necessary, to think about it. But that’s not how I operate. I’m a bit of a worrier, in case you haven’t noticed.
Maybe all of this will just take care of itself. Maybe if I just throw up my hands in defeat, all of the dynamics of these relationships will shuffle down into their rightful places. That’s quite a risk to take. Adding the word “mother” to my list of roles is risky, after all.
I know that I have every right to have my own family, to devote 100% of myself to that effort. I know this the way I know any number of facts that I can read in the pages of a text book. But I don’t know it in my heart, yet. I don’t know if I can be the kind of daughter I’ve become accustomed to being, and a mother, too. At least I will have the company of all of the women who have come before me, the endless pages of writings here in this community that I have become part of, mother or not. It’s a comforting thought.
