Take a load off

I took my two youngest children to have their pictures made today. Caroline wore a little crocheted dress made by my grandmother, and James wore the christening gown I made when Colin was born. (To see Colin's photo in the gown, click here. Enter the site, then click on "families and children." He's in the second photo). I had been feeling guilty for nearly a year over not having these photos taken, and even though it's been that long (longer?) since James was baptized, I figured it's better to have the pictures late than not at all. Miraculously, we got a few good shots, though Caroline still refuses to smile for pictures. I told her she didn't have to smile, but promised her the moon--or at least a Polly Pocket and some M&Ms--if she could just manage not to look sullen.

Later I enjoyed one of my daily chats with my sister, and we talked about feeling guilty for not having more professional photos made when the kids were tiny. It started me thinking of how many things we feel guilty about when it comes to our children. Collectively, she and I feel guilty for a host of things: not spending more time "enriching" them with various games or learning activities, losing our tempers from time to time; having more pictures of one than another, not being able to afford primo private school, kids having to share a room, feeding them non-organic food, having a messy house, not sewing all the daughter's dresses, giving up on cloth diapering, the fact that one has two cavities, you name it. After generations of our foremothers struggling for women's rights, we fret over not exhausting and martying our lives to provide a questionably perfect and idyllic existence for our offspring.

I can't help but reflect on the time when the little dress Caroline wore today was made--sometime in the early forties, by a woman struggling against the stark ignorance and poverty of coal-mining Kentucky, for whom adequate medical care or higher education, for herself or her family, was a fantasy. She died at 41 after delivering a stillborn boy, leaving behind 3 grown children, a teenager, and two preschool children (one of whom was my mother) whose remaining childhood became a horror story for another day. Somehow I doubt that against this backdrop anyone had time to feel guilty about the way she was raising her children. Getting food on the table and keeping a fire in the stove was worry enough.

Our kids have vaccinations, preschool, car seats, "Back to Sleep," crayons, paper, gratuitous amounts of toys, Leap Pads, flouride, water and heat that don't have to be brought in from outside, more photos already than my parents had made in a lifetime, combined, Flintstones vitamins, well checks, and a distinct lack of intestinal parasites and head lice, yet we neurotically worry that we're not providing some self-imposed standard of perfection in their young lives. My grandmother would think my children live like royalty.

Admittedly, I feel like a significantly better mother for having documented my little ones wearing these past and future heirlooms, but I think I'll counter that virtuous feeling by firing up the stove to prepare some Kraft Mac and Cheese for dinner, and I might not even serve a salad. I might even let them watch a little extra television since their Daddy is working late. To all other mothers, I suggest you take a load off too. We're doing better than we think.