The Mom Guilt is Just Too Real

The mom guilt is just too real.

Not sure why I didn’t notice when it started, but they say hindsight is always 20/20. I look back now and see a normal-postured, healthy, super high-energy toddler, who eventually slowed down significantly around 8 or 9 years old. Suddenly, he hated running around. I thought it was the influence of video games taking hold or general laziness.

I should have noticed when he coveted and received multiple pairs of Air Jordan’s which went largely unworn. They were lined up like pristine soldiers on the floor of his closet. “Why won’t you wear them?” Regrettably, I teased him about being Imelda Marcos, a woman he’d never heard of. When he started MMA, I should have been more observant. He said his legs hurt so much after every workout. I thought it was just muscle pain from hard work. I helped him push through it. He wanted to be strong. I wanted him to be strong.

Maybe I should have taken it more seriously when he started football. He complained about running being painful. When he lagged several years behind the rest of the boys. I entertained his pain, but inside I chalked it up to adjusting to the new demands of football conditioning. Four times a week in the sweltering heat, running and suffering through drills. I was toughening him up. I probably said “suck it up” more than once.

The Doctors

At his annual exam, we asked the pediatrician about the pain. He told us he has flat feet and should get inserts at the shoe store. I remember he was literally limping into the shoe store. We got the inserts. He said it helped so much. What a miracle I thought. I saw him adjust, slowly, to these new challenges. He wanted to succeed. His heart was dedicated, his body will follow. I’d ask him about it, but he’d claim to be fine. No pain. Things seemed to get better over the following year, however they weren’t. He started compensating for the pain. And covering it up.

In the last year, the complaints went away almost entirely, and began manifesting in his body, so loudly I couldn’t dismiss it. His gait grew more awkward when he thought I wasn’t looking. He worked out like crazy, MMA, the gym, etc. and the more he suffered. “Stretch”! I told him. “This happens because you don’t stretch!”

Just to be safe, I took him to an orthopedic sports doctor. He checked the mobility of his hips and legs. Measured his growth plates. “He’s got the body of a large 16 year old and his growth plates are where they should be for a 13 year old.” “What does that mean?” I asked. “That means he’s a large boy with normal growth. I don’t see anything wrong with his legs or his hips. It’s just growing pains.”

Honestly, I felt like I couldn’t let it go. I wanted to, but something was wrong. The way he came down the stairs was less like a teenage boy and more like an old man. He winced when he walked.

The Diagnosis

Finally, I took him to a podiatrist. I felt a little silly, but this “flat footed” thing was bothering me. If it wasn’t his hips and it wasn’t his legs, it had to be the feet. Or maybe he could just tell me there’s nothing wrong so I can go to another doctor. After about an hour long exam and questions, the doctor explained. He was 100% sure.

It turns out he has something called Equinus deformity. It’s not uncommon. It can cause mobility issues, tightness in the calves, pain. His is severe. He now wears leg braces (picture a modern Forrest Gump contraption) for an hour every night. The doctor was clear, it probably wouldn’t have been so bad had we caught it sooner. We had a better chance of correcting it years ago. He may be limited in his mobility, and he may have pain for the rest of his life. Pain I might have helped to avoid.

The Guilt

My best friend told me, it’s not my fault. How could I have known? I took him to the doctor. Multiple doctors. They didn’t see it. My husband looks at me with a very sympathetic smile but also like I’m being ridiculous. He has to cut down on some activity for the time being, the stuff that really exacerbates the pain. Stuff he loves to do. Sometimes after riding his bike or running with friends, he limps. He tells me he’s fine.

There are far worse things, but I cried when we were shopping for shoes yesterday. Wide width. Full support. Sorry, can’t wear those. Or those. Examining the uneven wear on his current shoes, and his excitement for the two pairs in his size, that he could actually wear. There was no hiding my impending meltdown from his dad who then said loudly “What’s wrong?!”

He said to his dad, “She’s sad because of me. It’s okay, mom” and he held me. 

No joke, I completely lost it. I cried in the middle of Dick’s Sporting goods. Hard to admit it, but I have cried every day since I found out. I’m crying now. One day I’ll be okay with it, but it’s going to be a while.