Like everyone else, my
thoughts are on motherhood this weekend, not just my mother but the chain of
mothering in my family. My own mother was a wonderful, warm, joyful person—my favorite
memories are of her telling funny stories—some about family, some on herself,
and some on me. She’d laugh till the tears rolled down her cheeks. Like the
time I put nine tsp. of baking soda in a cake and served it to my parents; she was
astounded, until she checked the recipe—it was a typo. Or the time she was
worrying about feeding a friend while at the same time signing an important
document that guaranteed she was legally responsible—she signed it Alice P.
Mac, went to check the toast, and came back to write Bread. (Our name was
MacBain.) Or the time she found herself in the middle seat of our station
wagon, between two toddler grandchildren—the harder they screamed, the harder
she laughed. She taught me to cook, she tried to teach me to be a lady, and she
taught me both love and strength. In her mid-eighties she slipped into dementia
due to small strokes. I’m sure it was distressing to her, and I know it was
terribly distressing to my brother and me. Sometimes I feel the disturbing memories
of those few years get between me and all the joy and laughter of my life with her up
until then, and I struggle to reclaim the wonderful woman who raised me. She's been gone almost thirty years.
Do I miss her? Not in the
usual sense. She is with me. Often when I wake in the night or early morning I’m
aware of a presence in the house. In rapid order, I discount the peacefully
sleeping dog, the grandson who is not under my roof that night, and I realize
that my mom is in the guest room. Watching over me. She is with me when I cook
something or do some other small thing I learned from her or I quote one of her
many favorite aphorisms. My mom is like the angel that sits on my shoulder—she may
frown occasionally but generally I think she’s happy. I talk to her a lot, but she doesn't answer.
Motherhood was not
something that came naturally to me—I assumed it would happen but I didn’t
think much about it. Only it didn’t happen, and my husband and I adopted four children.
By the time the oldest was twelve and the youngest six, I was divorced and
raising them alone. I would not trade for the richness of that experience,
though I don’t think I was a particularly good mother. There’s so much I didn’t
do—homework, discipline, etc. though I did feed them regular, healthy meals,
see that they had nice clothes, lived in a nice house, and were loved by lots
of adults. They tell me I just don’t remember the small things. They are
wonderful adults, all happily married and parents now, and when people praise
me for the good job I did, I say it was just luck. But I love them all fiercely
and rarely miss an opportunity to be with one of more of them.
Now I have two daughters
and two daughters-in-law who are mothers to my seven grandchildren. Each has
her own style, and sometimes I am full of praise, while other times I bite my
tongue. It ain’t easy, this mothering thing. There’s a fine line between too
little and too much, and nobody sees it quite the same way. I used to get so
frustrated when my mom, in her dotage, would jump one of my kids, and I’d say, “Please,
Mom, I’ll discipline them.” She’d retort, “Well, then, do it.” One of the
memories I’d like to discard, and one of the reasons I try to button my lip,
even when I simply think a child should say “Please” and “thank you.” I keep
Jacob, my youngest daughter’s son, a lot, and she sometimes says, “What is
wrong with you? You’d never let me do that.” So he gets more strictness than
the other whom I only see on visits. But my grandchildren are growing up to be
fine, well-loved children.
The chain of mothering
goes on, and I feel we are blessed, even if it always surprises me a bit—so unexpected.
I probably took my mom for granted but I never expected to be a mom myself, let
alone a grandmother. It all pleases me a lot, and I feel we are blessed as a
family.
