I remember being guilt-ridden when during my son William's second night on the planet. I allowed the nurses to watch him for a few hours so I could get some sleep. I felt terrible because it proved I wasn't coping already, didn't it?
At three weeks, after enduring the hell of mastitis, my mother insisted I let her feed a bottle to him, instead of letting him try to suckle my inflamed boobs. My chest felt like two bags of rocks and razors but I still felt guilty that I wasn't able to easily do what is supposed to come naturally – the boob brigade had told me he'd refuse my melons for ever if I offered him a bottle too early (he didn't).
For the first year of motherhood I carried around guilt like a festering nappy bag for the following reasons:
Drinking two margaritas on my first girls' night out when he was only six weeks old.
Giving him a name that is very boring instead of something wild like Ryder or Hudson.
Letting him roll off the bed while I was checking my email - twice.
Thinking that it would be more fun to dress him if he was a girl.
Telling a friend I thought, that in a certain light, he looked like Yoda from Star Wars.
Wishing he would just shut the #Slideshow-84768%
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