Happy Mother's Day

A delayed Happy Mother’s Day to all!

Whether a woman stays at home full time, or commits to a life of juggling the intricacies of kids and work, mothering is a job like no other. Nothing prepares a woman for the tidal wave of passion and protectiveness like nuzzling the damp head of your new baby. 27 years ago, I crossed over from the world of self-involvement to a new mission statement. I glided through the years where a shower is postponed until bedtime, hair brushing was a luxury, and grocery shopping was my outlet. I never cared that the boys left peanut butter stains on my pant legs when they ran to hug me. My world got a little smaller, and a lot messier. And I loved it.

I was a different Mom to each of my boys, because they all had different needs.

Pat was lucky enough to have me to himself for two years, but I made my rookie errors on him. I knew he was perfect. His special language charmed me: I could understand everything he communicated, although there was a gibberish element to it. Once when Pat appeared on Steve’s show, a caller opined that he sounded retarded. Still, I thought the caller was rude, not that Pat was developing inappropriately. A microscopic exam by an ear specialist eventually confirmed that his eardrums showed evidence of perforations from continuous ear infections. He had never even whined or tugged his ears. He got started talking and he never stopped until he had talked his way into Northwestern and into Rachel’s heart. Despite my benign neglect, he turned out fine.

Mike was a colicky boy, sensitive to touch. He liked to be bound like a papoose, and rocked or bounced aggressively to go to sleep. He was time intensive. I had less time, and a bit less patience. It took two or three attempts to get his shoes on with the sock seams aligned. All tags were cut from his undies and shirts. Mike took things at his own pace, walking late, never really crawling. I had learned from Pat’s ears, though, and so I dragged him to Loyola for evaluation at 18 months to figure out if there was something wrong with his legs. The pediatric orthopedic Doc said Mike was fine, but I had Suburban Mom Syndrome. It’s a good thing he retired. Years later, I had Mike in physical therapy to re-wire a part of his brain that was cluttered by infant reflexes that had not been weaned out, blocking his brain’s cognitive wiring. I would have diagnosed the doctor with Condescending Medical Center Syndrome. No harm, though-Mike managed to create excellent brain function and ended up at U of I. He turned out fine, too.

Matt was an unanticipated gift, and his conception altered my life for good. I still had “job” on my to-do list, because Steve was still a bad boy at the time, and was on his third job in five years. With Matt’s birth, my law degree went into the linen closet, where it remains. Matt was the beneficiary of a more confident Mom. I did not care how many ‘lovies” he had, and the crusted nature of them did not gross me out. Matt was amenable to a binkie, and I was grateful for the silence. I never obsessed about toilet training. I just stayed home until he went so I would not be embarrassed in public. I took him with me to exercise class with slippers if I couldn’t find his shoes. I do not think of it as lowering the bar for Matt: I think of it as expanding his boundaries. Compliant as a baby, Matt bumped harder against those expanded boundaries. He fought me on my expectations, and worked hard to confound them. He saved his challenges for high school, when I was worn out. He can go from rebel to angel in a heartbeat, and the rollercoaster is a ride I avoid. But I shared the ups and downs with Matt. Today, I can hear what is going on in his life by listening to his web cast, but I can take his emotional temperature by talking to him on the phone for 30 seconds. He supports himself by waiting tables now, but he pursues his radio dreams via web casting. He gets his frustration out and his creativity in during the day by pounding drums and playing with his new band. His adaptation makes me proud. He has some options percolating, and as his Mom, I predict the broadcasting thing will turn out well for him. He has turned out fine, just like his brothers.

Yesterday I was able to look around and see the fruit of my life’s work at an amazing brunch. They were all spruced up, on time, and bearing lovely gifts and cards with words of gratitude. Rachel, and Mike’s friend Kathryn added beauty, while Rachel’s parents gave added incentive for the boys to use party manners. Steve orchestrated it, and I know he would rather do Pilates than dress up in a sport coat to serve himself a brunch buffet. When I looked around, my heart swelled, just like it did when I first nuzzled their soft sweet skin. The job of Mom has terrible hours, no retirement, messy fringe benefits and deferred gratification. You take your “finished product” and hand it off to someone else to care for. You pray that they can love and understand their special gifts, or difficulties. Being a mother requires that you take leaps of faith every day, without taking time to check for the net. It generally appears.

Once a year, the kids rally round to say thanks, but every day I thank the God who put me in this wondrous place. If I knew in advance how hard it would be, I might have taken a moment to consider my options. And I would be incomplete.