...About Mothers...

What is the price of an afternoon when a small child is soothed in your arms, when the sun bolts through a doorway and both you and the child are very young? ~Dorothy Evslin

How many times can you honestly say you write publicly about your family? Many of you will say you never have. I have shared a few stories about my parents and I how I wish I told them how much I appreciated them while they were alive. Myself, and each of my siblings have our own version what went on in our home growing up, most of us disagreeing with the other, and each argues our version is the correct version. I’m not going to write about my family but I am going to write about mothers in general. 

Lately, I’ve had several conversations about mothers—my mother, my friend’s mother’s, and other family members mother’s—most of all who have left us. Whether we are young or older children of passing mothers, we’ve learned to pick up the pieces and move on with our lives with the lessons they taught us. The conversation I had with an old friend this morning left me thinking how people’s lives are impacted after their own mother’s passing, and how their beautiful souls will never be replaced. One friend told me that the passing of her mother defies speech and can only write about in her personal journal. Why would we want to replace them with a surrogate? Why would anyone want to replace what was a significant part of your life?

Some of the greatest prayers and farewells in print contradict the humiliations to which is truly representative of mothers, like aging, mental illness, physical deterioration—by bringing the mother at least imaginatively back to life through a kind of poetic resurrection. I said everything I needed to say before my mother passed 31 years ago, but I still have two regrets with her passing; one—I regret she was not around to see my children grow; and two—she didn’t push me hard enough. I was a rebellious teenager and to keep peace, she gave in to what made me happy. In retrospect, I would have done some things differently, but maybe not. I’ll never know.

We live in a society where psychiatrists claim mothers are held responsible for 72 types of psychological disorders in their children, and talk show hosts are constantly pointing an accusing finger. A mother cannot discipline a child with a swat on the butt without some bleeding heart accusing her of child abuse. Nine times out of ten, they haven’t experienced motherhood! It’s difficult to think of motherhood without considering that Freud constantly denigrated the role of the mother. At the height of his absurdity, he believed that a woman’s desire to have a child was a way to compensating for her lack of a penis! Excuse me Bub, let me straighten my idiot sign! That had to be one of the most outrageous and blatantly false scientific analyses to be ever published, and difficult for most women to digest…I digress!

Motherhood brings as much joy as ever, but it still brings boredom, exhaustion, and sorrow too. Nothing else ever will make you as happy or as sad, as proud or as tired, for nothing is quite as hard as helping a person develop his own individuality—especially when you struggle to keep your own.

I got a call last week from my daughter-in-law, telling me my son was in a motorcycle accident on his way to work. I had visions of what my son told me about some of the wrecks he had to attend to before the words from my daughter-in-laws lips said, “He’s going to be okay.” At that moment, I only began to understand what my brother and his wife went through after losing their oldest child. Thank God, the accident wasn’t as serious as it could have been, but nonetheless, it was unnerving at the moment. I’ve never been an emotional person to the outside world, and my husband didn’t understand the surge of anger that poured out from me from the profound loss we could have endured. Several years ago, I worked with a woman who lost her only son in a car accident, she explained how she felt and she told me with tears streaking her pained face, “The pain of losing him was like someone poured acid all over my body, then set me on fire.” I shared this with my grieving brother and sister-in-law, my brother looked at me with intense pain in his heart and said, “No...it’s worse.”

Motherhood is a hard act to follow, it’s been transformed into art, and the artistry has been shaped by maternity. Perhaps, the meanings of motherhood are as mysteriously multiple and contradictory as the meaning of life itself…

I could go on and on about the love we have for our children, for our mothers, and for our grandmothers.  I can share the sorrow and loss of a miscarriage, but I won't...not tonight.  I want to end these thoughts with a smile as I think of my daughter and my granddaughter who is carrying my first great-grandchild, and how the circle of life continues...

P.S. By the way, Mom, you’ll be glad to know I eat tomatoes and mushrooms now. Oh, and remember how I stuffed the lima beans in my cheeks and then had to use the bathroom? Well, I spit ‘em in the toilet and yes, even though I’m all grown up—I still refuse to eat them! I see you smiling from above…With Love