Vachon Imagined

There is this itsy-bitsy thing that becomes the size of the Titanic the more we talk about it.

It is called mom guilt.

The guilt of just about anything that tells us we are lacking something.

The mother who wasn’t there when her children were small because she had to work. The mother who was there but was overwhelmed by her circumstances. The mother who is doing everything she can, taking care of herself, reading her Bible, going to her spa days, having her “me time,” feeling like she is finally doing everything right—and then suddenly she blows up at her children.

And afterward she thinks:

Wait a second. I was doing so good. Why am I exploding? Why am I hurting my children in the process?

First, we have to remember that children are far more resilient than adults.

That does not mean we should do whatever we want because children aren’t absorbing it. They are.

They are watching. They are learning. They are experiencing us.

But they are also experiencing something else:

A mother who can come back.

A mother who can say:

“Hey, buddy. I could have handled that differently. I’m really sorry I lost my temper and took it out on you.”

That confession matters.

It teaches a child something far more useful than the image of a perfect mother ever could.

It teaches them that we can be wrong.

We can acknowledge it.

We can repair.

And we can keep moving.

This becomes much harder when a mother feels completely justified in her explosion.

She has a million reasons why she was right.

Those kids are so rambunctious.

They never listen.

I’ve told them a hundred times.

And I don’t doubt that some of it is true.

The children may have been rambunctious.

They may not have been listening.

They may have pushed every button available to push.

But there is something else that is true.

If you pay attention to what moves through you right before the story begins, you will see it.

Life.

Something was already moving through you.

And then it moved out of you.

We call it guilt afterward because that is what it feels like.

We call it bad because that is what it feels like.

We call ourselves bad mothers because that is the story we build around the experience.

But the movement itself is not a moral verdict.

It is life.

And we are mothers doing our best with life as it moves through us.

This does not excuse what we do.

It gives us somewhere to begin.

Because our children are doing the same thing.

They are moving through life, too.

They are going to lose their tempers.

They are going to make mistakes.

They are going to say things they wish they hadn’t said.

They are going to hurt people.

They are going to be wrong.

And what are we going to do with that?

We are going to pray for them.

We are going to honor them.

We are going to teach them.

We are going to correct them without turning their mistake into their identity.

We would not want anyone to look at us in our worst moment and declare, This is who she is.

So why would we do that to our children?

Why would we do it to ourselves?

Mom guilt takes a moment and turns it into an identity.

Life gives us a moment and keeps moving.

The mother who can see the difference does not need to become perfect.

She needs to become present.

Present enough to notice what is moving through her before she turns it into a story.

Present enough to stop.

Present enough to apologize.

Present enough to repair.

And present enough to let her children do the same.

Because they are not here to become perfect either.

They are here to live.

And so are we.