The legs of maternity’s journey are comprised almost entirely of guilt trips—or so it sometimes seems. From your first forkful during pregnancy (is that the Best Bite for Baby?) to the last factoid of education under your watch, there’s always someone who is more than happy to tell you how irrevocably your ignorant, incompetent parenting is ruining your children forevermore. If you can manage to tune out that tragic chorus, your hyperactive conscience will gladly fill in the doomsday gaps.
At least that’s how my crazier days feel. Crazy or no, the joy of a guilt-free moment breaks upon me in a rush of giddy relief, and gives me hope for more sensibility to come.
A simple realization prompted the glee of this moment. Most days, we pull off a fairly admirable application of the food pyramid, if I do say so myself. BoyOne didn’t have any processed sugar (no graham crackers, no nothing) till his first birthday cake; and then (excepting what was administered behind my back by well-meaning parishioners), he had practically none till his second birthday. BoyThree, by contrast, has participated in most family feasting since an undisclosed, far more tender age.
Here comes the giddy rush: While I wouldn’t change what we did with BoyOne’s diet, I have no regrets about BoyThree’s rather more adventurous nutritional habits. Woo-hoo!
Oh mothers one and all, if only we could grant ourselves (and each other) this grace more often, and in matters more serious than Baby’s First Twinkie. (Not that twinkies aren’t serious. And not that BoyThree has had a twinkie yet. That I know of.)