We all have ‘em: those what-in-the-world-was-I-thinking parenting blunders that haunt us. My gold-medal mess-up occurred the year my daughter Cricket was seven and struggling with separation anxiety. She had been exceptionally clingy all spring, wrapping herself around my leg at school drop-off and howling like a banshee when I peeled her off. So when summer finally rolled around, I was utterly exhausted and more than ready for a break, as we took off for our annual Daytona Beach week with extended family.
Cricket and Matthew (Cricket’s older brother by almost three years) were having a blast playing with their cousins when Spouse and I learned we’d need to leave three days early to take care of something at home. My parents and sister graciously offered to keep our kids at the beach and drive them home at the end of the week.
Well, to me the prospect of three whole days of grown-up time sounded like absolute paradise – a no-brainer. We knew Matthew would be fine, but the problem was how to get away without igniting a nuclear Cricket explosion.
The solution seemed simple: disappear.
We wouldn’t tell her we were going. No messy, extended good-byes, no slobbering, screeching protests, no desperate little hands clutching, clutching, clutching. Just … poof. Gone. Surrounded by family she knew and loved, she’d get over it, right?
So we packed our bags and snuck them into the car. Then when Cricket and her cousins were playing in a back room, we quietly slunk out and drove away.
Ah, such freedom! I even turned off my phone to avoid any interruptions of this glorious newfound peace and was almost giddy with relief on the three-hour drive home. It wasn’t until we walked into the too-quiet house and I saw Cricket’s loved-to-tatters teddy bear lying forlornly on the couch that I started feeling the full impact of what I’d done.
I had abandoned my daughter. I’d left her without any explanation, without any assurance of my love. I had forsaken her trust and disregarded her needs, thinking only of my own.
The next three days were a blur of tears and guilt amid excruciating phone reports of an inconsolable little girl sitting all by herself – mourning – while the other children played and swam. She wouldn’t eat and cried herself to sleep every night. Too young and immature to understand why we’d left, but old enough to feel deserted by the two people she trusted most. Her little world crumbled.
Guilt flattened me like a steam iron.
Tell me, why is mom-guilt is a step beyond regular guilt on the suffering scale?
Maybe it’s because we moms have been entrusted to love and protect these precious little people who bear our crooked noses and knobby knees, and when we bungle that sacred responsibility, we set ourselves up as sitting ducks for flaming guilt arrows shot straight from the pit of hell.
Satan’s full-time job is to accuse us. And the Accuser (Revelation 12:10) takes his job very seriously.
We must be alert and aware of his covert agenda – to pelt us with sizzling guilt until we’re worthless blobs of misery, paralyzed by blame, doubt, and guilt, deplorable especially to ourselves. Hitting us in the emotions is an effective way to debilitate us.
My friend, blogger Elizabeth Hoagland, says it best: “Guilt is not from God; the Holy Spirit may convict us of something, but shame and blame are Satan’s game.” And sister-mom, shame and blame are no lightweights; they weigh us down like a suitcase full of rocks.
Dragging around that heavy baggage, we often feel defeated before we can even start unpacking. What to do? How to unload? Where to begin?
Well, if you’d like to dump the hefty trunk you’re carrying right now, here are some ideas:
• Buddy up.
Recognize that you’re not the only one lugging those overloaded bags around the airport. It’s time to approach the help desk, where you’ll find empathy and support. Find or form a Bible study or support group of sister-moms. You don’t have to navigate the journey alone. “Resist him [the devil], standing firm in the faith, because you know that your brothers [and sisters] throughout the world are undergoing the same kind of sufferings” (1 Peter 5:9 NIV).
• Label your baggage then lose it.
Yep, name it, claim it then chuck it. Identify what’s weighing you down. Mom-guilt has many subgroups: nursing verses non, working full or part-time versus stay-at-home, daycare choice, mode of discipline, schooling decisions, DIY remorse (“I should’ve made his costume instead of buying it”), Pinterest inadequacy, birthday party inferiority, pressure to join, etc. ad nauseum. Name each rock in your hand. Own it. Ask forgiveness if need be. Then drop it like a hot potato. Now leave it down there. Do NOT pick it back up. What’s done is done; you can’t undo it any more than I can go back in time and not walk out on my little girl. But hear this: God can and will redeem our poor mom-choices. After we make mistakes – even guilt-ridden ones – we get to start over. All because of God’s grace. “And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast” (1 Peter 5:10 NIV).
• Repack.
Lighter this time; you’re allowed only one carry-on. No rocks, not even pebbles. That means disqualifying yourself from the Accuser’s shame and blame game. Remember, Satan –also called the father of lies (John 8:44) –is clever, for there’s often a snippet of truth in his accusations, just enough to riddle you with doubt. And a partial lie is tougher to combat than a blatant lie. Learn to discern.
• Shake the mental Etch-a-Sketch.
Don’t be conformed to the world’s standards; shun the impossible perfect mother image the world projects. God doesn’t ask for perfection; He asks for humility. And a willingness to change. “Don’t copy the behavior and customs of this world but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think” (Romans 12:2 NLT).
So let’s agree that we all make mothering faux pas. Some small, some humongous. But our blunders are redeemable if we surrender our rock pile to the Lord and view reflexive guilt as an indicator of how deeply we care about our kids, rather than an incriminatingly pointing neon finger flashing over our heads: Bad Mom … Bad Mom … Bad Mom.
Our past mistakes can crush us beneath their oppressive rock-weight, or they can sharpen us into a better mom for tomorrow.
So let’s stop looking back. When we stay riveted to life’s rearview mirror of guilt, we miss the horizon of hope in front of us, painting the future fifteen incredible shades of pink.
*Adapted from Debora’s book, Too Blessed to be Stressed for Moms.
