My Ugly Confession

Guest blogger: Kim Dettmer of In Search of Me in Mommy

I do it.

I HATE that I do it.

But, I do.

I’m not proud of it. I try not to even “go there”. But, sometimes it creeps in. And for a moment, I feel better about me. And when that moment passes (which it quickly does), I feel worse. Because, in the end, it is about me… My insecurities. My guilt. My fear.

I CONFESS: I judge other mothers. Damn, I hate to admit that. Because I know that the judgments that we have of each other is what leads to though horrible feelings of “Maybe I am not a good mom.” I try to be kind, understanding, and often times I can, “Oh, so relate”, and my judgment stays a bay. And in those moments, I am proud to be a mom and feel like I am contributing the greater good of all mothers. But there are times, when a mom does something that “I would never do”, or is not kind, or is just different – and then, much to my chagrin, I “go there”. I hate that I see such interaction between a mom and her child and I draw conclusions and make judgments without knowing the person, entire situation, or circumstance. It’s not fair. Not fair to other mothers, and not fair to me.

In these times of judgment, for a moment, I get a “good” feeling. An I-know-better feeling. A feeling of triumph, because in my self-serving mind, I have “beat” that mom and the gold medal of motherhood is mine. But that feeling is short lived, and incredibly destructive. Deep down I know that I have won nothing and that these judgments are merely a defense mechanism for my insecurities, guilt, and fear about my own abilities as a mother.

And, because I have these judgments, I know that other moms are doing the same to me. So, as I hear my son scream “NO, I am NOT going.” And proceeds to laugh at me as I angrily pick up his kicking, flailing body and carry him out of the McDonalds Playland, I feel the eyes. THE JUDGMENTS.

I want to cry and scream, “I am just doing the best I can, right now in this moment!” And shriek, “No, I AM a good mom.” But as I pull out of the parking lot, with tears in my eyes, and my frustration level off the Richter scale, I wonder, “Am I?”

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