Tired Ass Mom

Today I went on a field trip with my daughter’s kindergarten class.

She goes to a charter school—don’t ask me what makes it different. All I know is it’s a great school, and both of my kids have gone there. In fact, my daughter has the same kindergarten teacher my older son had. That’s just how the school works with siblings.

We’ll call her Ms. Johnson.

Ms. Johnson is a working mom herself, which makes this harder to explain. But from the beginning, I’ve felt judged as a working mom—especially one who can’t always show up.

My first interaction with her was a week before my son even started kindergarten. She placed a clipboard in front of me and said, “This is the sign-up sheet for weekly helpers. Pick a day you can come help in the classroom.”

I asked if it was just one day.

No. It was weekly. For the entire school year.

I explained that I worked full time and couldn’t commit to a day every week. I got a look—disappointment, maybe—and then she said, “Well, sign up for what you can,” before turning to talk to another mom.

I tried not to read into it. Surely I wasn’t the only mom with a full-time job. Surely this wasn’t personal.

Then came the group texts. The weekly reminders about needing help. The special days that required a family member to attend—the penguin parade, the ABC parade, dress-like-an-old-person day. All these moments where other parents would be there.

And my kid couldn’t be the only one without someone there… right?

I went to everything I could. But I had just started a new job with a new company, and time off wasn’t flexible. I told myself I was making the important things: field trips, concerts, award ceremonies.

Still, the guilt crept in.

The worst was Teddy Bear Tea Party Day—when I found out my son was the only kid without a parent there. That one stuck.

And then there were the comments. Small, casual, but sharp.

“I’m so glad you could actually make it.”

I tried to tell myself not to spin her words. Not to overthink it. But those comments landed anyway, heavy and personal.

Fast forward to this year with my daughter.

I have more flexibility now. I’ve been at my job for five years. I show up more. Grandparents help out. I’m doing “better” by school standards.

Today was a field trip to the ice skating rink. My husband came too. We were there. Present. Helping.

And still—there it was again.

“I’m glad you actually made it.”

It felt like a dagger to the heart.

Because what that comment really says is: You weren’t enough before.

Mom shaming doesn’t always look loud or obvious. Sometimes it’s quiet. Polite. Smiled through. Sometimes it’s wrapped in expectations that don’t account for real life, real jobs, or real limits.

And the thing is—we already carry enough guilt. We don’t need reminders of where we fell short in someone else’s version of what a “good mom” looks like.

Some comments linger longer than they should.