On Being Mothered and Mothering
Happy Mother’s Day to those who mother and are mothered—in all ways—conventional and unconventional—that we care for one another. These single-day celebrations irritate me; mothers are mothers day in and day out. Some mother who are not taking care of children; some mothers stink. Still, today. I am awake early thinking about the privilege it is to have children—our choice—to be able to raise them, knowing that they are not ours, but we are theirs, and to watch them emerge into adulthood, to bear witness to their strengths and vulnerabilities as their champion.
Last night, I pinned a white rose boutonniere to my son’s lapel for his Junior Prom. He is taller than I am now, his face his own, but in it are our daughters’ features and my husband’s, too. This week, I have sat near him in the dining room as he prepped for his AP US History exam, offering tea, but mostly trying simply to be a calming, loyal presence. It seemed the less I said the better. My suggestions typically got an eye-roll. When I made him Silent Night tea, he accused me of drugging him. I grinned. I was glad he allowed me to be near.
At a doctor’s appointment in the city last week, our second daughter, Cordelia, saved the day, zipping back across Central Park in the rain to retrieve my belongings and helping me change in a tiny hospital bathroom, so I could be presentable for an elegant lunch. I had demurred when she offered to accompany me to the hand surgeon; I am so glad she insisted.
“No, Mom. You are not taking a bus and a train and another bus to get to Dingle,” my oldest daughter, teacher by day and personal assistant cum travel agent by night, scolds over the phone. “I’ve booked you a car. You do not need to wrench your shoulder alone in Ireland. You’re worth it.” The luxury feels too indulgent, but part of me is delighted to give way, touched by her ferocious attention to my well being.
These days,I feel more mothered by our three children than the one who mothers them. The balance has shifted. Often, I suspect our children consider us dithery and ineffectual, one step up from luddites, practically ready for the home. They shake their heads at the colors we have chosen to paint the Watts House. They cluck at our choices, roll their eyes. Yet, they love us. I know they do, but the ways in which I can show my love have changed.
The easy days are done. Dry diapers or more milk no longer suffice. In the beginning, we feel overwhelmed by all the needs they have that we must meet, but those are satisfying months—we believe we can fix things with a tighter swaddle or a new stroller. We feel sleep-deprived but learn competence. Now, my children are too big for me to hoist onto my hip, to distract with endless rounds of the Itsy Bitsy Spider, to amuse with finger puppets. They no longer climb into my lap to read picture books on Saturday mornings or ask to do art projects with macaroni. They do not need an elaborate bedtime routine comprised of songs and stories. They rarely request counsel about friendship issues or school drama or outfits—well, sometimes, outfits, especially if I am paying. They do not need to be told much anymore. It is harder to offer comfort, to feel their needs are being met. Yet, they are remarkable—accomplished, funny, smart, determined. They care about human rights and the world and one another and about our family. They love their grandparents and Eagles Mere. Two of them have partners for life, and I love those new members of our family as well. The day-to-day mothering is evanescent, fleeting. Once Atticus leaves home, I will still be a mother, of course, but not one who makes dinner or races to Nordstroms for emergency suit alterations for Prom. I will miss being needed in those urgent, every day ways.
We waited so long for our children, hoped and hoped for their arrival, but infancy and toddlerhood and the awkward Middle School haircuts fly by; now, they are grown—or almost grown. And their care—no longer expressed in cinnamon toast or Café Français on a Mother’s Day breakfast tray replete with a vase of tulips or lilacs—made with much squabbling and a mess for me to clean up later—has given way to other kinds of care. It’s a funny and wonderful thing to be loved by grown children. Do I miss pigtails and matching frocks, stuffed animals and Cordelia’s sparkly red Dorothy slippers and make-believe? Do I miss trips to the Carl Schurz playground and the Merry-go-round and playdates and elaborate birthday parties and the Halloweens of their childhood? Absolutely. Would I trade who my children are now for another chance at childhood? Not a chance. Now I have grand-dogs and grown ups and wise women and a chauffeur and a son-in-love and a daughter-in-law and so many more ways to be loved. I am lucky.
The question I ask today on Mother’s Day is how to show my love when it is needed in less obvious ways. How to stay present with the right amount of care and love and support and listening? How to put my phone down and not worry about something at work when our son needs to talk? How to offer counsel on careers or the college process that hits the right note? How can I adjust a bridal veil or coo over an engagement video or pin a boutonniere so they feel the expansiveness of my love but not the burden? I suspect they will tell me if I get it wrong. But how great on the days when I get it right and they allow me to mother them just a little bit. What a privilege to have walked beside them on their journey of growing up.
