Thinking About: Guilt

I love my in-laws. I’m fortunate that Kris’ parents are kind people who love their sons and the women who married them. Judy told me one time after reading my blog that I could write for Chatelaine and, while I don’t read Chatelaine and only really know it as a reference in a K.D. Lang song, it was sweet of her to say. She requested a web log entry about guilt. So here it goes.

Women have a sixth sense. I’m not talking paranormal ESP or whatever (though I totally believe in that). I mean that in addition to sight, smell, taste, touch and hearing, we also have guilt. It is an “ability” that generally revolves around our families. For example, ten years ago when my grandma was in the final weeks of her life in City Hospital, I didn’t help her out of her chair and into bed because I was afraid she would fall. I called for a nurse and it took like an hour for someone to come help me put her in bed. She was in pain and wanted to lay down and I blew it. She’s been gone a decade and I still hold on to that moment, feeling like a shit for not just doing it. Especially because I know my sister would have done it in an instant.

I feel guilty for asking Kris to move across the country twice. I feel guilty for feeling so much rage towards Max when he was newborn and wouldn’t stop crying. I feel guilty that I haven’t been able to stop him from falling in the tub FIVE times. I feel guilty that he eats processed food sometimes and that he goes to daycare for nine hours a day while I work. Then I feel guilty for not being at work when he has a fever of 40 degrees. I imagine that this will just continue to accumulate over the years as I hone my “ability” until I either reach an age where I can’t remember how do it, or I die.

The unfortunate thing about this kind of guilt (not applicable to criminal guilt, obviously) is that it serves us no purpose whatsoever except to make us feel rotten. I’m trying to get rid of it but it keeps hanging in there. For the most part, I’m a good person who makes relatively informed choices. Intellectually, I know this. Emotionally, I sometimes don’t feel it. Some days I succeed at being a good parent, sister, daughter and wife. Some days I fail miserably. The point is, when we die and whatever happens thereafter, it really won’t matter how many hotdogs we fed our kids or how many times we didn’t answer the phone. We’ll be too busy haunting the crap out the ones we left behind. Well I will be. If you just want to go float around in space, that’s fine too.