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Confessions of a Guilty Mom
By Natalie Rose York

I called and made the appointment. I knew it needed to be done. Despite what the doctor said, I knew it should have been done last year instead of waiting. I listened to the doctor. I waited and it felt wrong.

The big day came and we all piled into the car. My son asked where we were going. “We are going to talk to a lady.” I couldn’t tell him the truth. “When we get done, we’ll go to the library,” I added, hoping to throw him off the scent.

We checked in at the front desk. “We are here to see Mrs. Smith,” I said. The secretary walked us back to Mrs. Smith’s office. I signed the necessary paperwork and sat down to watch.

“We are going to sit and talk.” Mrs. Smith directed my son to a chair. I held my breath as he sat down compliantly. They “talked”. The test seemed endless. Mrs. Smith pointed to pictures and my son said the words. I was so proud, yet at the same time a death knell tolled in my heart – he was going to need speech therapy. I knew it, and had known it for some time. Mrs. Smith told me unofficially that she thought he would qualify for the program, but scheduled us to come back Friday to discuss the results.

I consoled my husband. I told him what everyone had been telling me. “At least the help is available”, “Isn’t it great that it is free”, etc. I could do this. I didn’t have a problem with my son having a speech delay. I smiled on the outside. But on the inside I knew what I felt. Guilt.

It didn’t seem to matter that everyone was telling me not to feel guilty, that I was a good mom. Some children just need extra help. I knew. I was guilty.

I could have done more. What if I’d read to him more? Forget the myriad trips to the library or the overflowing bookshelves. What if I was more vigilant, more diligent? What if I could have afforded to send him to that preschool? What if…

What if I hadn’t been put on bed rest when I was pregnant with his little sister? What if I had been able to care for him better? Forget the clothes I’d put on his back and the food I’d put on the table. Forget the nights I rocked him to sleep. What if his baby sister hadn’t been colicky? What if she hadn’t demanded every bit of energy I had? What if I hadn’t been diagnosed with postpartum depression? What if I hadn’t been admitted to a stress center three times for depression and suicidal ideation? That is what it boiled down to: what if I hadn’t been cursed with depression? If I hadn’t, then wouldn’t my son have been whole?

I continued to smile on the outside as we heard his speech scores. I continued to smile as we scheduled his speech therapy. But inside I knew I was guilty. It was my fault he had a speech delay.

I had been reading when God spoke to me. This quote just leapt off the page.

“Don’t feel totally, personally, irrevocably responsible for everything. That’s my job. Signed, God.”

I had been taking the world on my shoulders again. I hadn’t looked at the other side of the coin.

Maybe he if he could speak clearly he wouldn’t be so imaginative. Maybe I wouldn’t have dinosaur traps in the middle of my living room or hear him upstairs chasing pretend mice with a whiffle-ball bat. Maybe he wouldn’t be so artistic and creative if he could express himself verbally. Maybe I wouldn’t have a kitchen table covered with crayons, chalk, paints, and clay. Maybe I wouldn’t have a refrigerator covered with pictures of talking trees, robots, bugs and cats.

“Neither go back in fear and misgiving to the past, nor in anxiety and forecasting to the future, but lie quiet under His hand, having no will but His.” – H.E. Manning

Now, I know. No longer do I feel guilty of my sons speech delay. Instead I was guilty of doubting God. And God forgives. I don’t know what the future holds for my son, but I do know Who holds the future.