There is a Babble article floating around the internet where an admittedly not perfect mother admits to a greater love for her younger son than her 3 1/2 year old daughter. She goes on to make excuses in her post and subsequently, a follow up post with more excuses. But…it’s out there, footprints made. Someday her daughter may find this post and if she didn’t know and sense already, she surely will now.
It got me to thinking, though. So, maybe it was a good article then?
There is no such thing as a perfect mom, we know this. We all make mistakes that are sure to send our children sobbing into kleenex while laying on couches.
I suck as a mom. I do. I don’t follow through on punishments, I let them talk to me disrespectfully sometimes, I don’t make them do chores.
I am the worst mother possible.
The only perfect mothering I can admit to is how much love I feel for my children.
All of them. In no particular order. From conception.
Sure, I bonded with each one differently when they were born.
My first born was easy, he was the only one then. Despite a painful c-section and split open nipples, the thought of putting him down or handing him off gave me worse pains than the hole in my stomach that wouldn’t heal. It was the first time I had ever seen my heart.
My daughter, my princess. My little girl. The guilt I felt at having another child because how could I possibly love someone the way I loved my first one. But she was yummy and beautiful and mommy’s little girl from the get go. I still can’t stop staring at her without tears coming to my eyes.
And then, my baby. My youngest. Born from a second marriage. The third child that I always wanted but never thought I’d ever be lucky enough to have. Talk about guilt. I was so worried about how having another child would affect my older two that for the first few months of pregnancy I cried nightly when everyone was sleeping. But he arrived, swollen face and a head full of red hair. He looked like a troll but he was perfect and I didn’t put him down the entire hospital stay.
To say that I love one more than the other? Impossible. I love each one to maximum capacity. My heart swells and breaks for them, from them. They each come jam packed with different dramas, both comedy and tragedy. Not one of my children is my favorite though. They all are.
I don’t always particularly like them though. On any given day, in any random order. Somedays, I don’t like a single one in the least bit.
In fact, there are days when I outright despise them and want to slap their whiny faces. But my heart lurches and swells and reminds me that these people are my life.
Then I go back to being pissed at them. For the moment.
I think about the movie Sophie’s Choice. The most poignant, horrendous and memorable point in the movie was when she had to chose which child to be separated from. A mother’s true nightmare.
My heart began to beat when my children were born. Each birth, despite different circumstances and unique bonding, made the beats that much stronger.
So, when I read that post which the mother describes how her love for her son was stronger, and despite her follow up trying to make excuses for it…
I have to say, without being a martyr or sanctimonious…
I don’t get it. Her words, despite being written and not spoken were like the adults in Charlie Brown cartoons. I don’t understand.
Most of all, I don’t understand how someone could put that out there into the internetosphere where it floats around forever, to someday be discovered by and devastate that little girl. That’s not being lousy really, just selfish.
Makes me think that sometimes we trade TMI for comments.