A beautiful and sensible piece on Mother’s Guilt.

Beth Teliho

Quite early this past Saturday morning, I was in Writer-Beast-Mode with a deadline dangling over my head, typing busily on my laptop while my eight-year-old twirled around me, talking nonstop as he’s known to do. I was half-paying attention to him, nodding and smiling, certainly not 100% present, I admit. Until he said this and my world came to a screeching halt:

“I liked it better before you were a writer. You weren’t on the computer so much. You spent more time with me.”

My heart broke into jagged shards and Mother’s Guilt settled in my bones like a sickness. Doubt ran through my mind as I wondered if I was doing a disservice to my children with my writing. Do I ignore them? Are their memories of me going to be the back of my head, typing on a computer? What have I done?

And then a giant dose…

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