Friday Mom’s lovely meditation on parenthood and truth-telling got me spinning off into thinking about mommy guilt. There’s got to be safe space for good-enough mothers to vent and gripe without being judged or lambasted for whining. Judith Warner’s book Perfect Madness spoke to a lot of women, including me, about the insanity of this “mommy religion” which expects women to live and die by their children, to transfuse every ounce of their lifeblood into their children's lives, but it also inspired tons of criticism. Many people flamed her for addressing the concerns of, let’s face it, middle class/affluent women. “Cry me a river,” they said. “You knew what you were getting into, and there are people who have it much worse than you, and think about all the people who can’t even have kids, so suck it up and deal with it.”

Because apparently, you only have the right to complain if you are at the absolute bottom of the misery food chain. Apparently you are only authorized to point out injustice or flaws in a system or mindset if there’s absolutely nobody worse off than you. This is of a piece with churchy folks who say, when faced with suffering and grief in their lives, "Oh, who am I to complain? So many people have it so much worse than I do. I lost my father to cancer, but I had him for so many years, think about those people who lose children."

Why can’t we all just complain when we feel like complaining, and mourn when we feel grief? Wouldn’t that be more honest? And in turn, can’t we all just be reasonable enough to grant that grief over the loss of a parent does not diminish the grief over the loss of a child? There’s plenty of grief to go around. And can we grant that when I complain about my kid, I’m not saying that I wish I’d never had kids? And when I gripe about having no time for myself, that I’m not trying to one-up a single mother of four who works two jobs and goes to night school?

It’s not a competition. The expectations put on mothers these days are heavy. They’re not Sudanese-refugee heavy, and nobody’s claiming they are. But a good full-throated vent is healthy, and anyone who doesn’t like it can get bent.


At our church, we do something I like. Before the prayers of the people, we invite folks to share specific prayer concerns, and the pastor who isn’t preaching that day (usually me) prays for them right then and there. Later in the service, we share joys. Meanwhile, the lay leader writes down the concerns so that the church can follow up as appropriate.

Two weeks ago, the lay leader asked for prayer. She’s a delightful, vivacious woman, an elder in the church, and was asking for prayers for her 9-month-old son who, it turned out, had fallen down two flights of stairs earlier that week. “He’s totally fine,” she said brightly. “He wasn’t hurt at all. But I’d like prayers for him.”

I wasn’t sure at first why she had mentioned this during the concerns, rather than the joys. He was OK, right? I had seen him just that morning. But as I began to pray, as I began to ask God for continued healing and strength for this little boy, the mother started crying. She cried as I asked God to strengthen the rest of the family, she cried as she dutifully wrote her son’s name on the prayer list, she cried as I went on to the next person.

She was crying for her son. She was crying from relief. But really, I think she was also crying from guilt. She had turned her back for just a moment, you see, and he took a turn and fell, and fell, and fell. She asked for prayers for him, but she was the one in need of healing.

We Presbyterians don’t do personal confession like the more priestly traditions do, but I’m ready to take her aside, if needed, and let her vent and second-guess herself and feel guilty. And then to assure her of God’s surpassing forgiveness.

But then again, I think she’s clear on that concept. The one she needs forgiveness from is herself.