Reflections on a Mother's Worth

I remember asking my mother a question when I was still in awe of my new baby daughter, "Mom, did you love me as much as I love my baby?"

I have replayed her answer often these past years. "Of course I did." Simple as that. But I am still comprehending the magnitude of that answer. It tempts me to truly feel worthy.

How pleasant it must be to be in the position of a grandmother. The mother labors to dig a path for her children, struggling to keep pace in front of them, every once in awhile turning around to corral them back on the path. Meanwhile, the grandmother is strolling alongside the children, holding hands and picking flowers. Every once in awhile, the grandmother provides advice on the shoveling technique, but no gloves are offered. When the mother complains about the toil and hardship, the grandmother holds up her palm to show her own hardened calluses in sympathy.

So why is it so difficult to understand that my mother loved me as much as I love my children, and as much as I see that she loves her grandchildren? Perhaps it is because I have come so far in life without truly appreciating what my mother has done for me. Maybe it is easier to question that love than to feel the guilt. But there comes a time when every mother must face the truth: that indeed, her own mother felt that love, lived that love, and suffered that love.

It is necessary for young children to be ignorant of their mother's sacrifice. If our children comprehended how much they put us out, they would probably implode with guilt. That is why motherhood has acquired the reputation for being a thankless job. But as adults, we can and need to understand. It is part of the maturing process that every woman must go through, whether she has children of her own or not. It is just that having children forces the issue.

No wonder a grandmother loves her grandchildren so much. She knows that those children are responsible for the newly-formed painful calluses that cause her daughter to finally look back at her mother with understanding, forgiveness and true appreciation.

bxApage bxAinline

First Class Boy

There was a time when my children provided me with all sorts of humorous fodder to fold into a story that grandparents would find amusing. Now that my children are older, these opportunities are fewer. My nine-year-old son, however, being the innocent constitution that he is, will probably give me a few more years of laughter.

Oh how excited he was to receive a package from a stranger. He opened it to reveal the contents, showing me a small bag of about a dozen flat yellow Legos.

"Daddy got me the Legos I needed!"

Not sure why he would be so excited about these generic Legos, I asked him what he was going to do with them. He proceeded to explain all about something concerning something. My husband and son have a super secret Lego thing going. I rarely ask.

He was still talking about his package as we pulled the garbage bins in from the curb. He told me how Daddy had the man who sent them write his name on the package.

"And Daddy even had him send it FIRST CLASS!"
.

bxApage bxAinline

Prattle of the Preteen

I can’t just pick up the phone anymore. I used to be able to pick it up at any old time, dial, and speak. That privilege is no longer in my life as of the last month.

My preteen daughter has discovered the telephone as a communication device. It is not enough to have playdates (do we call them that anymore?) and email. Even IM (instant messenger for those of you not tech-hip) leaves the voice intonations lacking. No, the telephone rings constantly now.

Fortunately it is still just girls calling, talking about boys I imagine. And for some reason, the phone rings three or four different times during one conversation. Not sure if it is potty breaks or what. So I have learned to not answer the phone. It’s rarely for me anymore.

I have patience so far. I remember being in seventh grade with the receiver hanging off my ear. I have an image of myself lying on the pistachio-green carpet in the formal dining room with my feet up on the wall, chatting with Debbie about absolutely nothing, twirling the phone cord through my fingers. It was connection; it was society. I will not deny that of my daughter. But it’s only been a month.

Earlier today she asked if she could walk down to the store with her friend this afternoon. Here she is, almost a teenager, and she has never walked out of our neighborhood unescorted by an adult. She's traveled on her own with her class trip, but not to the store around the corner. That is not unusual. When put against my peers, I am no more protective about such things than any of them. My daughter has a friend who lives nearby (but across a busy intersection) and we as mothers still walk our girls back and forth. And the other girl is almost as tall as me. It is less a sign of overprotection and more a sign of the times.

In response to her request to go to the store, I told her I had to think about it and talk to her father. What am I afraid of? Let me count the fears. I am afraid of the white van pulling up to two attractive young girls and being off with them. I am afraid of her running across the busy street and miscalculating oncoming traffic. Pretty much the same things that I was afraid of when she was two. Nothing much different there.

Maybe it is time. I am open to her growing up. It allows me more freedom to discover myself again outside the role of being a mother. I do trust her judgment in crossing the street. And the odds of that white van being along the quarter-mile distance during the five minutes they are walking is arguably slim.

She is still waiting for my permission. Mainly because I am unable to call her father since she is still on the phone.


Epilogue: Dad made the call with a decisive, "No way! I don't want some creep in a van picking them up." I suppose I needed a few things at the store anyway. They can disappear on their own while I shop. Baby steps.

bxApage bxAinline

Water, Water, Everywhere

I knew I was in trouble when the body aches started. My husband had just left for a two week business trip across the country. Within a day, I was in bed with a full-blown flu, the kind that makes the room spin if you attempt to stand.

My daughter was eight, and my son five. All the grandparents were out of state, and my close friends had children of their own that they did not want to get sick. So we were pretty much on our own. Even though my kids were quite independent, I was a little worried about how they would feed themselves for a couple of days. Turns out it wasn't my children I should have been concerned about.

It was all I could do to crawl to the bathroom and back. There was no way that I could navigate the stairs, nor attempt to fix myself something to eat once I got to the kitchen. I needed to rely on my children for sustenance.

I knew from the sound emanating from downstairs that my kids were taking full advantage of my weakened state to watch marathon television. My beleaguered throat would not allow me to call out to them, so I waited for what seemed hours for one of them to check on me. When that time finally came, rather, when one of them walked by the door, I croaked out something incoherent.

My daughter poked her head in. I whispered hoarsely, "Water...please."

I heard her shout down to her brother to bring me up some water. Then she disappeared. I waited. And waited. About an hour later, my son bounded in and jumped on the bed. His bouncing shook my very existence. I begged him, "Please, honey, stop bouncing. Please bring me some water. Please."

"Sure, Mommy." He bounced away and blessedly returned moments later. In his hand was a small Bob the Builder cup, half-filled with lukewarm water. I grabbed it and drank it in one swallow. It merely teased my parched mouth.

My daughter walked in then. I took hold of her arm tightly, and implored her through tears. I told her I had not eaten in a day and a half. I needed an entire jug of water, and some kind of food. I told her I needed her to check on me at least once an hour. I was sobbing by this point. Bless her heart, she finally got it. She finally understood that her mother was truly ill and needed assistance. She got to work.

She enlisted her brother's help, and from the sounds coming from the kitchen, they were making Thanksgiving dinner. I wondered if I should have suggested a bowl of cereal.

They appeared at the door a half-hour later with a tray, announcing that they had made pancakes. I was confused since they were not allowed to turn on the gas stove. I attempted to sit up as I questioned how they made pancakes.

My son smiled and exclaimed, "Oh, easy! We made them in the microwave!"

bxApage bxAinline

British Biscuit Blunder

It was one of those opportunities that could not be passed. My young daughter blinked at me with big eyes, after she looked at her fairy book with recipes and drawings of the magical moment. Can we have a tea party right now? With her little brother interested as well, I relented. We chose one of the several recipes of which I was sure we had all the ingredients. (I was not too interested in dipping violet petals in sugar water and eating them, even if we'd had any violet petals handy.)

Looking at the recipes, I noticed the primary measurements were in metric, so figured the book was probably from England. One glance at the back proved the first price to be in U.K. pounds. We also noticed they recommended "caster" sugar, of which I was unfamiliar. My daughter guessed it might be confectioner's sugar, so I thought we best look it up. Sure enough, it was "chiefly British," but ended up being finely granulated sugar. So with our translations in hand (using the cup measurements in parentheses), we headed for the kitchen to make "Shaped Biscuits." I figured we could have them with butter and jam. I love flaky biscuits, and thought it might be fun making them from scratch for the first time instead of using Bisquick or one of those pop cans.

I had one of those rare moments of complete mother patience as I allowed my children to make not only the biscuits, but quite a mess as well. They cooperated well, taking turns measuring and stirring, while I interjected teaspoons of wisdom here and there: Use the half measuring cup three times instead of getting out the one-cup and half-cup. Use the back of a knife to swipe off the top of the cup. Yes, one-third two times is two-thirds. Hot water rinses off grease better than cold water. Give your brother a turn. No, we only use the sifter for flour.

The children rolled out the stiff dough, and I pulled out the cookie cutters. I figured different shaped biscuits might be more fun than just round ones, so I helped them choose larger simple designs that might have a chance of being recognizable after the biscuits rose and fluffed out. My daughter chose flowers and butterflies to go with the theme, and my son chose a teapot and a sun. They rolled and stamped and rolled again. They rolled the dough quite thin, but I figured I would just watch the oven so the thinner ones did not burn. As we placed them on the pan, I reminded the children that they were biscuits and not cookies, even though they quite resembled cookies after using the cutters. They reassured me that they knew.

I cleaned up some while the children worked on a second batch of biscuits, shaping more butterflies and a Pooh bear with eyeballs. One of my son's suns broke in half as I transferred it to the second pan, and he cried out in dismay. Quickly turning it broken-side down, I said, "It's a setting sun!" He smiled in agreement. Crisis averted.

I checked the oven a few times, but the biscuits were not rising or changing shape at all. I knew we had followed the recipe exactly, so I figured the children must have just rolled them too thin, just over a quarter-inch. I took them out when they started to look a little dry and figured I would just have to explain to the children that sometimes it is the process, not the product. We had enjoyed ourselves making them after all. So our biscuits were little bricks. Maybe we could dunk them in peppermint tea to soften them. I broke off a corner of the setting sun and put it in my mouth. It immediately melted like soft butter, infusing a gentle sweetness like a light breeze on a spring day. It brought me back to my early days on my own, when I would bake my favorite shortbread recipe and drink Earl Grey...

Then it hit me like the swift heel of a hand on my forehead. I turned to my daughter with big eyes and said, "The British call cookies biscuits!"

bxApage bxAinline

Little Bits of Soul

Sometimes I wonder if I lost myself along the way since becoming a mother. I know I have forgotten bits and pieces of myself. I assume it is a necessary part of motherhood, handing out little bits of your soul each day to nurture growing beings. I used to feel physically sucked dry when they nursed. But I did not care, and I still would not change it. My mothering instinct is alive and thriving as I kill for my cubs to feed them dinner. I get irritated sometimes and need peace, yet when I am alone, I rattle about the house unsure of what to do next. These children compose the bulk of what I use to define my purpose in life. As time briskly passes, I fear the future when they are grown. I like being the mother of small children.

bxApage bxAinline

Top of My Game

The child who could name all the Dragon Tales characters before he was two was having trouble with his color association. I even went so far as to research the existence of color-blindness in my family. My toddler always said the color names, but when you asked him the color of the green block, he would say, “yellow.” In fact, he went through a yellow period, then a green period, then a blue period.

As time went on, he did hit the right color now and then, and just like a man, he was quite sure of black, brown and white. Blue was also a pretty good bet. But try yellow, red, green, orange or purple, and it was a toss up. The really frustrating thing was that when you held up a banana and asked its color, he said purple, and then when you said “No, it is yellow” and ask again, he said red and grinned. He knew you wanted him to perform, and he enjoyed his power. It was like he was playing with you.

Then one day I sat my toddler down, and held up a brown M&M. I asked him what color it was, and he answered correctly. I responded by putting the candy in his mouth. While he was chewing, I held up a blue M&M and asked again. He was again rewarded. I repeated the procedure with a few more blue and brown M&M’s, until his mouth and lips were wet with chocolate and he was looking for more. Then I held up a red M&M and asked him its color.

“Yellow,” he said.

“No, it’s red.” I responded, and popped the M&M into my mouth. The confused look on his face was priceless. I held up another red M&M and asked its color.

“Red,” he said desperately, and I rewarded him by pushing it between his lips.

I held up a yellow one and asked him. “Green,” he responded.

“No, it’s yellow.” I ate it. Again, that furrowed brow.

Another yellow one. “Yellow,” he said, keen to the game now—my game this time, my rules.

bxApage bxAinline