Mother's Day
May 13, 2006

It is the eve of Mother’s Day. Currently my “hands on” mothering is most enjoyed by my little puppy, Millie, and her sibling/mentor, Mabel. It is time consuming, to be sure, but it pales in comparison to the juggling act that children require. My children are out of the nest these days (hence the puppy). Pat continues to troll for work in LA, Mike has just departed for his city lair (with alley views) and Matt holds forth at DePaul. It is quiet on the West Suburban front. I can deal with it.

The boys still utilize me as a resource, and I like that. I hear from them all when they need to vent, or process a problem, or when they need help. I am the portal to Dad, and I can re-package something they want so it appears that it is something they need. At times, I simply absorb and solve a problem. It is less intensive than the driving/scolding/monitoring phase of life, and that is a good thing. I am not sure I have the steel for testosterone management at this stage of life, and their Dad gets first dibs.

My mom was old-school, no short cuts. She did everything so automatically that we thought she loved every bit of domestic drudgery that came her way. For every birthday, there was a scratch-made cake. We presumed that she adored melting bitter chocolate and coaxing it to sweet frosting. We thought it was part of her self-actualization to strip beds every Monday, and wash 8 sets of sheets. We probably complained that we had to change the beds. We would call for rides, and she would throw a robe on over her pajamas and come out. When I had a bout of post-partum blues after Matt was born, she arrived slightly inebriated on my front porch. Even her terror of flying did not keep her away, and as a joke, she had borrowed a nurse’s uniform. When my sister traveled to China to adopt her daughter, Mom said she’d be glad to baby-sit. The fact that she saw only peripherally and had congestive heart failure did not deter her. Mom’s life was in service to her family.

Of course, we thanked her for every good deed she did, but as I have grown older, and I hope, wiser, I realize that her life was so wrapped around her kids that she failed to apportion a remainder for herself. When we all moved away, and Dad pressed her to relocate, she crashed. She was sad that no one needed her on a daily basis: she had no reason to get out of bed. Dad was impatient, but Mom’s depression required time and treatment. She came to Chicago to visit during her sad times, and Chamois, who was a brand new Golden Retriever puppy, brought some sunshine to her soul. She sat in the yard, looking fragile but content. I barely recognized the dynamo that wrestled six kids into submission. She made her way back, thanks in large part to the fact that she had adult daughters, Jenny and Marie, who lived in the Detroit area, and who helped her to put her face toward the light. Her children had grandchildren for her to dote upon, bake for, or baby-sit. She rejoiced.

I am not the super mom that my mother was. I miss her every day, but at this time of year, I think of her even more. In May, Mom would be gardening, even when her hands were crippled with arthritis, and her eyes were dimmed by macular degeneration. We surmised that she loved doing it: I wish I had offered to help. She would not have liked my short-cut modality, but she would have loved the company. At the end of the day, especially Mother’s Day, that is what Moms want- contact. They want to know that the sacrifices they made count for something, that they are appreciated. All it takes is a card, a hug, a call: the gift is the recognition, or the thanks. Because the truth can now be told: we may not have liked wearing the Popsicle stick brooch, but we loved that you thought to make it.

No matter how old our babies are, Moms hold them in their hearts. When our children are kind enough or wise enough to appreciate our work, our lives have added meaning. The gift of “thank you” is so simple to give mothers. I wish I had reflected more upon my Mom’s service when she was around to bask in the glow of my appreciation. If you are a lucky one, your mom has heard from you. Then, of course, she is lucky, too.