A Spectrum of Mother

Motherhood as a Lifestyle Choice

Weren’t we all those cocky women who thought we would do it better than anyone if and when we were going to have a child? I found my partner early. We moved in together and adopted a cat. My orange tabby got exclusive use of my lap for the five years and the fertility treatments it took to make our first of two human beings. Then they all shared the space for the next fifteen. It took a while but he got used to the competition. My husband, I mean.

In my small group of professional women in Los Angeles I was the first to have a child. At a much remembered meal at a long forgotten deli in West Hollywood, two of my closest friends and their mates watched my son murder a bowl of matzo ball soup. Tiny hands scooped it up and dumped it over everyone’s paper placemat. Little squares of carrots dotted his chin and I’ll let your imagination decide where I found the trail of noodles later.

Four well heeled mouths stared horror struck at me. I shrugged, having given up the ghost the way they would for their own kids in the coming years as they arrived. Motherhood, the good kind anyway, is the ultimate humbler.

Mother, the Title

I’m a good listener, not necessarily a talker and so I was anxious for my babies to say something. Especially, “Mommy.” I dreamt about it, fantasized taking on a name held at a mythic place in my mind. My mother was a constant, steady stream of love and concern — which could be sometimes misinterpreted as rage. Often it was aimed at me, because I listened.

My sons’ began as a cute, gurgling, “mama,” and ended as a, “Mommy, mommy, mom-may, MOMMY!” for 15 years on a loop I couldn’t wait to end, and am ironically, finally in a position to appreciate.

And I have witnessed firsthand what a gaping hole it can leave for a mother when their child dies, their cry silenced absolutely — a horrifying, unnatural vacuum of sound. Motherhood is unbreakable; children are not.

Mother on a Continuum

My youngest turned 21 last month. He is giant and handsome, charming and funny, and not particularly interested in me anymore. At least he’s not that into in me staring lovingly at him, hoping that life will measure up to his desires, and knowing that’s never the case.

I approach slowly, more worried about saying the wrong thing than I have been since my mother was around to misunderstand my intent.

“It’s called break for a reason. I’m resting,” he offers with a condescending smile.

I stop myself from shaking him, tell me the most intimate details of your life! I want to know.

“Walk?” I ask instead.

“I have to do some courses for the internship online. I’ll catch you later.”

When he rises like a phoenix from his basement bedroom, I pounce. Gently. Mostly. Our relationship is ever changing even though seeing him home and snuggled up to the dogs is better than any masterpiece in the world’s finest museums. Motherhood is longing.

Mother of a Memory

I guard a good chunk of their lives in my heart and I can tell it to them, but so much of it will stay my own. While they’ll remember the broken arms and big games, they’ll forget the rides, rainstorms, chatter, games and lovingly prepared meals. Decent motherhood does not hold a grudge.

Mother as Unconditional

I barely remember the times they disappointed me. Well, there was the time one got suspended, or the other one got into a car accident where thankfully no one was hurt. I made a conscious effort to let them move on from lessons learned, which, as any mother knows, is not easy. I do take comfort knowing I can tell any future grandkids all about it, assuming I get them. Motherhood is delayed gratification.

Mother as Master Negotiator

“How long do you reasonably want to spend time with me?” I ask him. Instead of being on constant call, I’d like some parameters to work with.

He looks up from the phone long enough to roll his eyes. “I have work. You have,” he waves his hand around dismissively, “Things. Right?”

Twenty years ago, I picked him up from daycare. “Did you have a fun nap?” he asked.

When I looked confused, he pointed chubby fingers at me and insisted, “But I did. I sleep, you sleep.”

I read that once your kids go to college, you will spend maybe one year more of accumulated time with them. If that’s all we have, they’d better enjoy!

“What about one meal a day?” I try. Motherhood is a step below overanxious social director.

Mother by Example

The woman I called, Mom, was simultaneously harsh and loving; brutally cold and overwhelmingly loyal. She was beautiful though she could never see it, funny though she tried to downplay it, and brilliant though she never thought so.

She believed the quality of mothering was commensurate with the amount of worry, and she was very good. She worried about everything. But was also entirely, endearingly oblivious.

She insisted we come to her and bring dinner every Mother’s Day, despite the dreaded traffic on the Long Island Expressway, the toddlers and neglected pets needed to make it out there.

“You’re not my mother,” she said.

If only any of us understood how a few short years later, I’d need to act as just that. Or that a scant few after that, I’d ache to have her unreasonably demand things from me again. Motherhood is eternal; a person is finite.

Mother of an Expectation

I would have been easier on her, my father too for that matter, had they had the decency to live longer. Motherhood can be a ghost.

Mother as Blame

Mine and my mom’s knee jerk rejections are/were to take the threads that mean/t she/I’m not as perfect as she/I’d like to be, so choke on them. I know, it’s a problem. I’m working it through. Motherhood can be a weapon.

Mother as Teacher

I wanted more than anything that my children be good humans, that they reach anyone with a hand out and find a way to pull them up. I was very sure about this stance, and it’s a litte late now, but I’ve begun to think this is a very risky business indeed, a scorpion eating the friendly frog situation. Not really, of course. That’s how they win. Right? Motherhood is frightening.

Mother as Student

I consider myself “technology open” and struggling with it brings me right back to those times I was fixing my mother’s old fax machine. My kids help me with my phone. They have the boundless patience of their father, the saint, who was also the one to fix the fax, and I am grateful. Motherhood can be needy.

Mother as Acceptance

Alzheimer’s not only took my mother’s memory, but washed away that resentment and bitterness staining her world. I loved who she became in the end. We sang together and danced, she found love and regained her radiant smile. It was the most content I’d known her to be.

“You come here an awful lot,” she said to me in one of her very precious few lucid moments. “Go home to your family.”

I’d go back again 1,000 times if I could. I recognized so many parts of myself in that version of her — both fear and joy. I’m determined not to wait for oblivion to appreciate the full breadth of it. Motherhood is a lesson.

Mother as an Energy

I have known men and otherwise who have shown me the most honest mother love in my life. Don’t get me wrong, a uterus might make you more inclined, but I know women cold as ice and men who have held me motherlike through some of my darkest hours. Motherhood is the desire to love another person even when you’re tired, no matter the package.

Mother as Shifting Reward

My husband’s mother may make the long journey to live close to us in this next phase of her life. After never inhabiting the same city, having her come feels like a gift I’m hopeful I’ll love, if not a little terrified about — like surprise skydiving lessons.

And as my kids make their distances into lives, I am at a point where it will be nice to be a daughter/mother combo again. Motherhood is hopeful.

Mother as the Ultimate Love

In the course of my life, I’ve been the happiest nestled inside the pride and warmth I have for the things I mother, whether my children, nieces, nephews, cousins, pets, birds, plants or friends. Motherhood is the offering of a sanctified love.

Wishing you, on every end of the equation, a good one!

Also, call your mother. She’d love to hear from you.