Meet Mama Guilt

When my son and daughter were young, their growing-up years stretched out before my husband and me like some vast, unexplored beach—one whose end seemed practically unreachable, or at least beyond a barely-visible horizon.  Now that both children are teenagers, my husband and I are recognizing their time at home does indeed have an end point.  We have begun counting down the years—and especially the slower-paced summers—remaining before they graduate high school and begin whatever comes next in their lives.  This awareness has led us to be a bit more intentional about planning time together—with an emphasis on making fun memories as well as teaching important life-skills.

While our now-sixteen-year-old daughter has shown a good bit of interest in cooking (especially improvisational baking with unexpected ingredients, thanks to Chopped), our seventeen-year-old son has focused primarily on the role of consumer.   His food preparation has involved little more than throwing a Red Baron pizza into the oven, scrambling a few eggs with some cheese, or mixing Hershey’s chocolate syrup into his milk.  When he and I began discussing the fact that he may need to cook for himself someday, I asked what dishes he would want to make: not surprisingly, biscuits topped his list.  My own kitchen skills are relatively unsophisticated, but I do have an extremely simple three-ingredient recipe I rely on regularly.  I shared it with my son, and his very first attempt resulted in a pan of fluffy, man-sized biscuits, which the two of us had no trouble finishing off. 

The recipe I taught him comes from Mama C’s Kitchen, a cookbook special to me because of its author—someone in whose home I spent many happy hours.  Ruth, mother to my best childhood friend Sarah, was—in my young eyes—a consummate homemaker.  In addition to fond recollections of times our families spent together (our parents were long-time friends; though my mother and Ruth live in separate states, they still travel annually to celebrate birthdays), I also have countless memories of playing with Sarah at their house, and enjoying delicious meals as well.  Whether it was butter-slathered toast made from her homemade bread, or a crisp, green salad blended with her own vinaigrette dressing, the food at Ruth’s home was always carefully prepared and beautifully served.  Both my mother and I have treasured her cookbook of family recipes, partly because of our experiences in her home, and partly because it contains a handful of dishes that, even decades after its publication, I continue to make in hopes of providing my own family with tastes that make home a happy, comforting place. 

Obviously, the time I spent in Ruth’s home influenced me in positive ways.  But if I’m honest, I could say there have also been days when that same influence has haunted me—especially after I sensed God leading me to transition from part- to full-time work.   These days, while I might wish my family had the opportunity to enjoy meals as carefully prepared as Ruth’s, the reality is that my own life’s calling looks different:  As mother to two teenagers, wife to a husband who teaches and coaches, and professor to community college students, I often chafe against the reality that I simply do not have the margin necessary for creating meals like what I envisioned when I was a child.  I can’t begin to count the number of mornings I’ve felt that nagging twinge of guilt while sending my family out the door with hurriedly-microwaved sausage-biscuits prepared by Jimmy Dean instead of me.

Sometimes, the twinge is easy to shrug off—just a fleeting sense of frustration my husband and I laughingly refer to as Mama Guilt.  Other times, though that momentary guilt expands, becoming an aching chasm of self-recrimination.  When that happens, Mama Guilt’s lingering melancholy isn’t so quickly shaken.  Instead, the emotions triggered by her criticism make me feel like I’m swimming, weighty, in a thick sludge of anxiety.  I'm overwhelmed with fear that my family is losing something essential to their well-being, all because I regularly fall so short of what they need and deserve.  

I can't count the number of times I've found myself eyeball-deep into the sludge but haven't recognized out how I got there.  Slowly, though, I'm beginning to recognize exactly who is slinging the mud. And so I'm giving the next few weeks to the task of walking away from this long-time "friend." 

I'm saying goodbye to Mama Guilt.  Read more about why here.