The evolution of mom guilt

It usually begins the same way: I hear coughing over the monitor, mixed in with a little wailing. Then the coughing turns to retching. By the time I sprint through the door of Eli's room, the damage is done: it's a Code V (for vomit, of course) all over the sheets.

The next morning, Eli is warm and flushed and instead of galloping into the living room and insisting we "play chuggers," he crawls pitifully into my lap and lets me stroke his hair. Over his head, Phil and I are giving each other The Eyes. The Working Parent eyes. The "Which one of us is going to stay home with him today?" eyes. The "I have an important meeting today" eyes. The "Whose turn is it?" eyes.

I had never intended to be a stay-at-home mom, so I was relieved and excited to land a new job and go back to work when Eli was 10 months old. But as a stay-at-home mom, I never -- or very rarely -- felt guilty about leaving Eli to go to the gym when Phil came home from work or to go shopping on the weekend. After all, we were with each other all the time.

Even after I started working, I felt zero guilt about bringing him to daycare. He had always been a sociable baby who seemed to crave the company of other kids and adults who weren't Mommy, and as I expected, he thrived in daycare. 

But as he got older, things got trickier. He grew funnier and cuter and more interactive and more human every day. I enjoyed talking to him and hanging out with him. I craved being around him. I started to feel like I was missing out when I wasn't with him.

 For most of my first year back at work, Phil was the default stay-at-home parent whenever Eli was sick or daycare was closed, since I was trying to be a responsible new employee and also save up my days. Now that I've built up a little stockpile, and now that our second winter of daycare illnesses is upon us, we have the awful task of grudgingly canceling meetings, rearranging schedules (Phil arrived at his office one morning at 7 a.m. so we could go halvsies on missing the day) and trying to talk to VIPs on the phone while Eli yells "MOMMMYYYYYY Mommy Mommy Mommy!" from 1.5 inches away.

And now, like any good Jewish mother, I get to feel guilty all the time. I feel guilty FaceTiming Eli from my desk instead of being there in person, but I also feel guilty racing out the door of my office at 6 p.m. sharp while my co-workers -- some of whom are also parents -- stay late. I feel guilty when Phil has to take the day off and take Eli to the doctor, but then I feel guilty when it's my turn to take the day off and my office is shorthanded.

Last week, I had to leave work early to pick up Eli from school. It was naptime when I got there, so his teacher carried him out to me already bundled in his puffy red jacket. His cheeks were streaked with tears. I put him in his stroller and covered him with a blanket and he said in a small voice, "I feel better!" as if all he had wanted was to be with me. When we got home, I tucked him into our bed with his soft blanket and promised him I would sit right next to him while he slept. I had my laptop open and a Styrofoam container of halal chicken beside me. He slept for three hours (an eternity in Eli-time) and I worked. I felt like Supermom, like I had achieved the ultimate in flexible working conditions.

The next day, Eli was home again, only this time he was feeling a lot better -- not well enough to go to school, but well enough to be desperate for my company while he played. I shifted my attention frantically back and forth -- "We only use crayons on paper! If you push the easel like that, it's going to fall over! Hey, maybe it's time to watch another episode of Daniel Tiger" -- culminating with me apologizing to a director on the phone while Eli yelled at the top of his lungs. When Phil came home and it was my turn to head into the office, I had to escape through a crack in the door while Eli stood in the hallway and wailed for me. I could hear him crying as I waited for the elevator, swallowing my own tears, utterly exhausted without having set foot out of the building yet.

I had promised I would be working from home that morning, and I had done as much work as I could. I had been a great employee, I reflected, but I hadn't been a great mom. And that made me want to cry all over again.

Last year there was a blog post that went viral that was written in praise of stay-at-home moms. I saw it shared all over my newsfeed and each time, it made me want to punch my computer. I hated it. There was a small line in it that basically said, in effect, that moms should stay at home so other people wouldn't be raising their children. I am raising my child. I AM!!!!!!!! I would scream in my head. The truth is, I went back to work because I wanted to go back to work. But there are days when I worry that I'm being selfish, that I'm squandering days I'll never get back, even though I know that if I stayed home full-time all I would really be squandering is my sanity. Meanwhile, on the flip side, on the weekends all I want to do is have fun with Phil and Eli, but then when does the laundry and grocery shopping get done?

Most days, Eli runs off to his classroom with barely a glance back. But on Mondays, he cries and clings to me, as if he can't let go of the weekend we've just shared. I always feel part flattered and part guilty, part exasperated and part despairing. I rush to the door so I won't prolong the separation and then I walk slowly to the subway, sweating in my puffy winter coat, my heart heavy. By the time I get to the subway, Eli is probably all perked up, eating breakfast with his buddies or helping his teachers clean up. But all morning long I'll see his face in my mind and feel like something is missing until I get home again and Eli races out into the foyer to see me.

"Mommy!" he often exclaims, as if he is surprised to find me there. "You home!"