Momma Culpa

Dear First Born,

I am so sorry. As a mother, like most mothers, I mess up often—and I mess up worse with you than with your sister. You are my guinea pig, subject to the errors of my trials. The mommy guilt is strong in me, and though I know it doesn’t serve either of us, I want to get these apologies off my chest.

I am sorry that I mistook my babysitting experience for understanding babies.

I am sorry that it took me almost two weeks to figure out that my postpartum daily burrito indulgence was giving you epic gas. I am sorry that I waited so long to give you a bottle that every subsequent bottle was a struggle for you—and Daddy and Auntie and Bubbie.

I am sorry that I tried every possible method to get you to sleep through the night, from co-sleeping to Ferberizing and everything in between. I am sorry I left Daddy to let you cry it out, even though it only took 30 minutes for you to fall asleep for the night and you went to sleep easily forevermore.

I am sorry that I worried too much about milestones. I am sorry for all those Baby Einstein videos I made you watch in the name of education for you and showers for me. I am sorry that despite my best efforts to keep you safe, your sippy cups had BPA in them and you sat in a Bumbo seat that got recalled.

I am sorry that after under-preparing you to take the G&T test (on which you did well, for the record), you told me, “That was the worst idea ever.” I am sorry that I over-prepared you for the ERB with workbooks galore, and, after all that, didn’t have you take the test. And I am REALLY sorry that we live in a city where 4-year-olds take tests and must interview to get into school!

I am sorry that I had to tell you about the Holocaust and 9/11, but am thankful that I had the chance to tell you before anyone else did. I am sorry that the older kids on the bus told you about Newtown before I worked up the courage to tell you myself.

I am sorry for all of my hypocrisy. You get upset with me because I limit your screen time while I text and check Facebook like mad. You have a point. I am sorry that we both have to gag down the fish that I insist you eat because it’s “brain food.” And I am sorry that I will let you drink alcohol before I allow you to indulge in my greatest vice, Diet Coke, or, as you once called it, “mama juice.”

I am sorry that I baby your younger sister more than I did—or do—you. I kept her in diapers, in a stroller, and in school for a shorter day, all for longer than I did with you. I suppose I realized that each stage passes so quickly, and I am trying to hold on a little longer.

I am sorry if you will be embarrassed, but you’ll be the first child I put on a bus to overnight camp, and I’ll be the mother clinging to the bumper. You’ll be the first child I send to the college, and I will be the mother climbing the ivy (God willing) to peer into your dorm room.

Most of all, I am sorry for how fast it all goes. I am sorry I cannot slow down time. I try to savor every minute, but when I cannot, I savor my memories and write about you.

Do not mistake my apologies for regret, or my wistfulness for sadness. All of these mistakes have helped make you who are you and our relationship what it is in the past eight years—for which I am unapologetically thrilled.

Love,
Mommy

Lani Serota is a city mom madly in love with her two daughters, her husband, and New York City.