Motherhood and a Heaping Pile of Guilt – No Extra Charge

This past Sunday, after a long day working at the library, I was finishing up my dinner with Youngest Son.  We were chatting amiably when he casually mentioned that  he was the only kid in his class who didn’t have a parent at lunch on Friday.   The kids had gone to the one room schoolhouse in our township for the day and the teacher had invited parents to come to lunch, but I had to work. 

He continued, “Yeah, I was feeling pretty bad.  I ate with my head down.  I felt really sad.”  

This was almost too much to take.  Never mind that I work to feed my family, pay for their essentials and send them one day to college.  Never mind that I would donate a vital organ to any of my three kids if they needed it or take a bullet to shield them.  Never mind that I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in 16 years.  Disregard all the laundry, cooking and caring for sick children that I’ve done over the years.  Don’t pay attention to any of the field trips that I have indeed gone on.  Forget all that. 

The bottom line was that I didn’t show up for lunch and, therefore, I am a bad mom and just one step closer to Bad Mommy Hell.

I’d like to say that I can take the advice of Working Mother magazine and “allow yourself to not feel guilty”.  However, this would require a lobotomy on my part.  I wonder what the editor of this magazine would do if HER 8-year-old son came home from school and stuck a knife in her heart by saying that he was singled out because his mother worked?  Would she “allow” herself to not feel like pond scum?

Not long ago, I ran into a woman whose daughter had been my friend growing up.  When I inquired how she was doing, she gushed about what a fantastic mother her daughter was.  She breastfed all her babies for a year, took long maternity leaves and cooked all her food organically from scratch.  She marvelled at what a natural her daughter was with motherhood since she had been a working mother.

After listening politely and saying  how nice it was to hear about her daughter, I “allowed” myself to think of a word that rhymes with rich and is generally thought to be rude. 

And I didn’t feel guilty.  Imagine that.

Meet you in Bad Mommy Hell.  If you need a ride, let me know.  I call front seat.

The Graveyard Book By Neil Gaiman

In honor of one of my very favorite days of the year (that would be Halloween), I’d like to tell you all about a book I finished recently called The Graveyard Book by the strange and creative author, Neil Gaiman.

Nobody (better know as “Bod”) Owens has a very interesting life.  At the tender age of 18 months, Bod’s entire family was murdered by an evil and incredibly creepy man named “Jack.”  Bod, being a curious toddler, miraculously escaped and found his way up the hill to the ancient cemetery located there. 

The dead, who took up permanent residence at this particular graveyard centuries before, take pity on the little tot and give him the “privileges of the graveyard”, thereby allowing him to talk to the spirits as well as find his way around the forgotten place.  Silas, a figure shrouded in mystery, vows to be Bod’s guardian, since Silas can living amongst the living as well as the deceased and can therefore provide Bod with all of his human necessities. 

Gaiman relays the stories of Bod’s life in the cemetery bit by bit, with each chapter containing a new story.  We watch while the residents of the graveyard raise young Bod to become a young man, determined to find out what happened to his parents and sister. 

One of the best things about The Graveyard Book is that it’s written for upper elementary tweens/teens.  I happen to like YA literature because it reflects the audience very well.  It’s real and down to earth because that’s how young people view the world.

Gaiman’s snippets of Bod’s world are sweet, endearing, creepy and absolutely captivating.  I have to say that this is one of my favorite books of all time. (Bonus points to Gaiman for narrating as well.  He’s a great reader who adds a lot of character to his books). 

I used to be afraid of cemeteries – I thought that they were incredibly creepy.  However, I think back to something my grandma used to say to me. She’d tell me, “It’s not the dead you have to worry about, it’s the living.” 

So true, especially in The Graveyard Book. 

Happy hauntings!