I wasn’t big on guilt, self-reflection or grandiose notions of unconditional love—until I had a baby. I’d always wanted to be a mother, yet once the delivery approached I became slightly uncomfortable with the idea of a baby to care for every day and every night forever, or at least for the grand foreseeable future. But we planned for the future, my husband and I. We planned our son, and with great good fortune, here he came. Born right alongside him was my maternal Guilt, screaming its infernal head off. It was the bonus of motherhood. It was like I’d had twins, only worse. Because there’s no reward for Guilt, and I imagine there’s great reward for twins.

My son floored me with the force of what I felt for him, the fierceness of it. I was taken, completely and utterly. I was almost afraid of the fullness of my love for him; I couldn’t understand where he had come from. I’d forgotten my entire pregnancy. He seemed too perfect for that whole hullabaloo. I see now that this was in itself an engraved invitation to Guilt: I didn’t entirely believe in myself as a mother, especially not at first. But it didn’t mar the love; it was just a side effect of biology. I told myself I wouldn’t let Guilt rule me. But I could feel it. It exists (there’s no use pretending it doesn’t).

The Beginning Guilt Everything was going wonderfully. Our son was hale and sturdy. Theoretically, I’d be able to write and work from home, with quick solo errands out into the world. Pablo slept five hours a night. He was good-tempered, beautiful and magical, which of course increased Guilt. How could I deserve all of this at once? I’ll never forget the first day I drove away from my house, alone in the car. Pablo was 2 weeks old, and Guilt was a massive, leering physical presence in the passenger seat. With every passing moment, I knew every mile I drove was a ridiculous extravagance. What was it I needed to do again? Oh, right—I’d just needed some time to myself, to go to the store and pick up a few things. But Guilt was riding shotgun and saying, What are you doing? Get back home to that baby right now! Being a coward, mostly, I caved. I ordered groceries online. I took my son with me on walks and on bike paths. It was my privilege, really. Guilt ebbed. It waited in the wings for its next big opportunity. Then it came: The marriage fell apart. When Pablo was 2, I found myself abandoned and divorced. I felt cursed by frogs and locusts and evil godmothers.

The Middle Guilt  The millennium came and went, sweeping my marriage along with it into the dustbin of time. And I became a single mother.

The High Priestess of Guilt. Now every move I made had the potential for gargantuan single-mother Guilt. Guilt had been my faithful companion from the beginning. But now I would absolutely require help. Child care, here we come. When Pablo’s name came up on the holy regalia waiting list at the hallowed halls of Wee Care in Mill Valley, I took whatever time they could give me. I took it greedily, and that created mushroom-cloud Guilt. I’d needed the time to make money, so I thought Guilt wouldn’t be able to touch me. But there it was: Why couldn’t I write novels and breastfeed my son simultaneously? And scrub the floors as well, and change the litter box and juggle plates while weaving our clothes on a loom? Guilt wanted to know. I took on child care, one day at a time, until I was up to four days of child care a week. Four whole days. Something swung into place. I finished my second book, and after several rejections it was finally placed with a publisher. I was driving to pick up my son early from day care when I heard the good news, the news that would save our house. I remember the exact turn I was making when my agent called. I remember the joy of the book and knowing I was about to see Pablo, that he would run to me and I would kiss his perfect little face. That silenced Guilt. It turns out that time, some modest success and keeping the farm will frequently muffle Guilt. Because survival is job one. I was slowly running out of money as a freelance writer. Yet there were benefits: I watched my baby grow up most of the time. I rallied; I set up a support system, with Pablo’s best friend’s parents. We agreed we would each take the other’s son without any notice, unless in some way we physically could not. We were the black-market-babysitting league, and it worked beautifully. When Pablo was with his dad for a week at a stretch, I had free time to luxuriate and fill in the emotional corners. Since it was infrequent, Guilt let me have my little fantasy of freedom. I denied Guilt the right to steal what pleasures I had. I drowned it out so I could relax, have massages and enjoy a chunk of time with friends, some of whom were men.

The Final Guilt I took a full-time job. Now I could work and commute full-time, pay everyone and their cousin and still feel guilty for not being able to be there for every cupcake party and PTA event. I compensated by planning yearly getaways with Pablo (Mexico, Hawaii, Disneyland). And by not making plans every weekend with adults so I could hang with him. He was getting bigger and funnier, all very fast. Guilt didn’t need to lean on me too hard. I was aware of the time slipping by. I snatched every opportunity to be with him. Now I have come to embrace my occasional Guilt, almost. It makes me know I am busy and human. I find I can juggle, now that Pablo’s a third grader. I manage my time and my Guilt, and I hang on to my tiny house. Because this house is what keeps Pablo near his public school and his friends. And because this is our home. Perhaps my son will be like Pablo Picasso and never require a PhD. One can dream. I do. I dream of a place without Guilt. In my mind, it is Paris, and I am a very youthful 80. A child, after all. Suzanne Finnamore is a novelist and frequent contributor to O, The Oprah Magazine, Glamour, Marie Claire and The New York Times. Her latest book, Split: A Memoir of Divorce, was published by Dutton earlier this year. She lives with her son in Larkspur, CA

6 FOOLPROOF TIPS TO EASE GUILT Find a nice, close friend of your child’s—preferably one with two or even three parents—and arrange a babysitting exchange. If you don’t write a check for babysitting, it consumes less Guilt. Go to bed early and get up early and take naps on the weekend. You’ll never wonder where the day went or where your life went, and you’ll be on a schedule similar to your small child’s. Use premade cookie dough when your child has to bring homemade cookies to school—a medieval practice time has not erased. Get a library card and read exotic books to escape. After three weeks you give the books back. They don’t form massive piles in your home or show up on your credit card, positively oozing Guilt. Donate 5 percent of your salary to charity. That will alleviate some of that free-floating Guilt that comes from nowhere. Be nice to your child’s father, whether you’re married or not. Life is too short to spend exchanging buckshot with someone with whom you had a child.