Mother’s Day whirlwind

 

Happy Mother’s Day to all—birth mothers, adoptive mothers, stepmothers, surrogate mothers, yes—even mothers-in-law. I fit in more than one of those categories, and in my long life I have had several mother figures whose memories today leave me filled with awe and gratitude. Mothering, I’ve decided, is what Ron DeSantis would call “woke”—simply the willingness to care for others, to nurture. So cheers—and pots of flowers or special dinners or whatever—to all those “other mothers.”

This weekend I was on the receiving end of Mother’s Day thanks to my two daughters—and it was a whirlwind of a weekend. Megan arrived Friday, having ridden the Vonlane executive bus from Austin, and, after much planning and changing of minds, we had Cobb salad for dinner. Before I knew it, it was midnight—we had talked the night away.

Last night, Megan said to me, “I feel like all I did today was eat, drink, and hang out.” She was exactly right, though we started the morning (eleven o’clock is a start for my girls on Saturday) with a visit to my brother in the rehab facility. First time the girls had seen him in a long time, and there was lots of laughter.

Then on to Quince, the new restaurant on the river. I had heard both good and bad reports on it. Jordan had recently been to the mother restaurant in San Miguel and was eager to go back. And Megan was excited because Quince will be opening just blocks from her house in Austin. They loved it. I had a good salad of charred peaches, tomato, and burrata but much of the menu was too spicy for me (just cannot do spicy!) or had shrimp (I’m allergic). Several dinner entrees seemed to fit my taste more, and I’ll look forward to a dinner trip. It’s a lovely, bright space.

Home for a nap, and then a clothes modelling session. While I slept the girls bought me what seemed like an entire new wardrobe, and I had to try it all on. Of course I had to wear one new outfit for dinner. We went to Grace, the restaurant in the Omni Hotel. It’s not at all new, but I had never been, always considered it beyond my grasp. Megan is good about teaching me to spurge, and we had a lovely meal—steak for her, Diver scallops on tiny potato cakes for Jordan and me. And an inventive side of roasted onion with bacon and blue cheese. Impeccable service, interesting décor, and a great place for people watching. Megan said more than once, “Mom, you’re not paying attention,” and I said I was too busy watching the scene.

Some happy encounters during dinner: we were discussing the dessert menu (before we ordered so we’d know if we should save room) and Megan read off cookies and milk. A little boy at the next table, maybe four years old, leaned over and said, “You can dip the cookies in the milk,” and proceeded to demonstrate. His party left and was replaced by one with a younger boy, maybe eighteen months. When the adults at his table raised a toast, he joined them with his sippy cup. I saw it, mentioned it to the girls, and the child turned around and toasted with Megan. Finally, an older gentleman (well, not as old as I am) stopped by the table to wish me Happy Mother’s Day. No, we did not know him, but he told the girls, “You are almost as lovely as your mother.” Now there’s a charmer! And those are the kind of things that make me love living in Fort Worth.

My clean and neat closet

Christian's perfect
Egg Benedict

Today started with Eggs Benedict that Christian fixed on Jordan’s request—it was his first try to poach eggs and to make Hollandaise. He nailed both—perfection! But the big gift of the day was my closet—the girls totally cleaned it out. Six and a half years ago, they had just moved everything from house to cottage—the goal was to get it in place. I’ve never sorted it since, can’t reach the high hanging bar. They were
ruthless about discards—stains, too small, too dated, and out it went. Megan color- coordinated the hanging things (amazing how many red tops I have, which she thinks she is mostly responsible for). Tonight I have a neat, orderly closet and my dresser is piled high with discards. A huge Mother’s Day gift, and I am grateful.

closet discards

Megan has gone to Austin, but we will have one last celebration: roast salmon, smashed potatoes, and shredded Brussel sprouts. Then, tomorrow, it’s back to routine, but it has been a wonderful weekend, and I am feeling most blessed and grateful.

A sandwich tribute to the Kentucky Derby

 

A Kentucky Hot Brown
made with cheddar cheese

What a weekend coming up! Locally in Fort Worth, the weekend will see the first Mayfest celebration after a two-year hiatus due to covid. Festivities begin Thursday and run through Sunday in Trinity Park. Details and calendars are available online. This is the fiftieth celebration of the riverside, family-oriented festival that’s designed to bring families together for fun.

Looking at the bigger picture, families across the nation will be celebrating Mother’s Day on Sunday. If you haven’t made brunch reservations yet, you may be out of luck though a few restaurants might still have openings. Maybe flowers? Although various cultures tracing back to the Greeks and Romans have had celebrations honoring mothers, the holiday as we know it began in 1908 when a West Virginia woman, Anna Jarvis, held a private memorial for her mother. The idea spread, and by 1914 President Theodore Roosevelt signed It into law. Today many, including the late Ms. Jarvis, bemoan the commercialization of this tribute. It’s become a bonanza for restaurants, florists, and the greeting card industry. Still, it’s nice to thank Mom for all she does.

Don’t overlook the big event Saturday night: the Kentucky Derby, often called the “Run for the Roses” or “The Fastest Two Minutes in Sports.” Three-year-old Thoroughbreds run a mile-and-a-quarter track in about two minutes. If you blink, you’ve missed it. It’s the first of three races for the Triple Crown—next is the Preakness Stakes and then Belmont Stakes. The race goes back to 1875 and has been held every year since, even during covid.

I’m not much of a fan of horse racing and not a betting person at all, but I enjoy the celebration, with its ceremonial pomp and the outrageous hats and outfits on the ladies, the blanket of roses draped over the winner. The excitement in the air is so palpable you feel it sitting in your living room watching it on TV. So I’ll be watching, and in honor of the race I’ll be serving Kentucky Hot Browns.

There is not really a connection between the sandwich and the Derby, except that both are based in Louisville. The Kentucky Hot Brown was created by a chef named Frederick Schmidt in 1926 at Louisville’s Brown Hotel. Intended to be a late-night substitute for ham and eggs or for classic Welsh rarebit, it is generally an open-faced sandwich of sliced turkey, covered in Mornay sauce and decorated with bacon and grated Parmesan. Of course, these days there are variations—you can add tomatoes or mushrooms, you might want cheddar in your Mornay sauce instead of Parmesan. You can find recipes online for canapes called Hot Brown Bites or for Hot Brown casseroles. Some people make Hot Brown Sliders. One interesting note: the sandwich got attention because in the Twenties no one ate turkey at any other time of the year than Thanksgiving and Christmas.

A note about options: some recipes use milk, others chicken broth; some use Parmesan, others cheddar. I think it’s a question of pairing: if you use Parmesan, I’d use milk for liquid and add a pinch of nutmeg; if you prefer cheddar, use chicken broth and add ½ tsp. Worcestershire.

Here’s the basic recipe:

Hot Brown Sandwich for four

For the sandwich:

4 slices artisan white bread, toasted (if the slices are small, use 8)

1 lb. roast turkey breast, thick slices

2 Roma tomatoes, sliced

8 slices bacon, cooked and crisp

For the sauce:

¼ c. butter

¼ c. flour

1 cup whipping cream

1 cup whole milk (or chicken broth)

½ c. grated cheese (see note above for type of cheese)

Salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

Toast the bread, lay it in a large, flat casserole dish, and top with roast turkey.

Melt the butter in a small saucepan and stir in the flour, making a roux. Gradually stir in the cream and milk or chicken broth, stirring almost constantly until the sauce thickens. Remove from heat and stir in cheese, seasoning, and salt and pepper.

Cover sandwiches generously with the sauce and broil until cheese bubbles and begins to brown—do not let it burn! Remove from oven and garnish with sliced tomatoes and crisscrossed strips of bacon. Serve hot as the name implies. And raise a glass to the Derby winner!

 

 

 

A Mother’s Day surprise and thoughts on a pandemic

Had a special treat last night. A neighbor family came to serenade me for Mother’s Day. Prudence Zavala told me it is a custom in the Mexican community. Standing at a good distance in the driveway (now a basketball court), the dad strummed a guitarron, a large base instrument of Hispanic origin; one daughter had a vilhuela,a Spanish stringed instrument shaped like a guitar but tuned like a lute--Prudence called it a rhythmic guitar,  and the other daughter was on a violin. Mom took pictures, while two younger children danced and jigged in the background, giving their own spontaneous performance. It was absolutely delightful. Jordan and I watched from the doorway of my cottage, and I was so flattered they wanted to do it.

After a long weekend with no attention to my novel, I was back to work this morning. For me, it was a long workday—you can tell nine to five is not on my horizon. But I proofed my spring newsletter (if you want to read it, email me at j.alter@tcu.edu), checked the world’s goings on in the news, on Facebook, my email, including two listservs to which I belong. All that takes a long time, so it was eleven before I started on the novel, but I got my thousand words (my minimum goal) and ended at a good spot to both end a chapter and take the action in a new direction.

About three I was ready for a nap. Just crawled into bed when the yard guys arrived, which sends Sophie into a hysterical fit of barking. I have learned that no amount of chastising, shouting, or pleading will quiet her, so I just waited it out for a long fifteen or twenty minutes. And then they were gone. I fell into a surprisingly deep and long sleep. Dreamt old friends were moving back to North Texas. So overjoyed I was sorry to wake up.

Like most Americans, I am horrified by ongoing news about the corona virus. Not just the spread, not even the rising death numbers, though unlike our squatting president I don’t consider that a victory. I am worried—okay terrified—by the fact that the virus apparently keeps changing. Doctors are finding new symptoms, new organs that It attacks, new ways that it destroys the body. And now, it’s hitting kids—after we though they were safe.

This morning, Jordan reported that Jacob had an upset stomach. The rational part of me knew that he does that from time to time—his digestion seems to be a weak point. We all have them—anxiety has long been mine. But the irrational part of me immediately leapt to the fact that gastrointestinal problems are one symptom. Not a part of the early classic pattern of symptoms, but now recognized. Of course, later in the morning, Jordan reported that he was fine and considering what he ate this weekend when his cousin was here, it’s no wonder his stomach was upset.

I vacillate between hope and despair. With the ever-changing nature of the virus, the ease of contagion, and the lack of cooperation by a large segment of our population, plus the denial of our leader, I sometimes think it will kill us all. But then the hopeful part of me reminds that scientists all over the world are working to decipher the nature of this monster disease and to find treatments and vaccines. Surely, they’ll solve it soon, though it’s fairly awful that the US is not cooperating with other countries and has ordered a halt to research in this country. Research, like testing, must make us look bad, and above all, we must open up the economy..

How about you? Are you full of hope, despair, or somewhere in between?

Mother’s Day and a minor catastrophe

Such a joy to have both my daughters in my cottage this morning. The girls made an early run to the Dollar General—no Lysol, but they scored Clorox wipes. Then we “went” to the early service of church. The sermon was “What About My Family,” and a theme was families aren’t perfect; they are the source of our greatest joy and too often our greatest pain. I reflected on how fortunate my family is—lots of the joy and very little of the pain.

Afterward settled down, each occupied with our own things—me checking Facebook, Megan choosing things like towel racks and the like for her new house (they hope to move in at the end of the month). Every once in a while, the conversation drifted to food and recipes, and Jordan and I even laid out a dinner plan for the week. Tomorrow I’ll try first thing in the morning to get an early slot for pickup at Central Market.

We had our Mother’s Day celebration last night. Kudos to Christian Burton for a marvelous meal. He grilled steak and lobster, diced and seasoned potatoes to roast. Jordan made a big salad, and Megan made an herb sauce that we like but that is labor intensive. She has more patience than I for all that mincing. Jordan set a fine table with chargers and her best china, goblets, candles. We dined in style and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. Good dinner table conversation afterward until I announced I had to nap—again.

Before dinner, our good friends the Greens came for a distanced happy hour on the patio. With the world opening up and the new case count still going up, it’s almost harder to tell what to do about distance visits. We have decided that people that have not been to restaurants, salons, and other gatherings are welcome for outside, distanced visiting. We’re not let letting people into the house or the cottage yet. I am comfortable with taking it slow, though I sure would like a haircut. I am befuddled by those who are rushing out to restaurants and going about life as normal or what they wish was normal.

Now Megan and Ford have left for Austin, the Burtons are headed to Coppell to see Christian’s parents, and I shall take a nap and then fix myself one of my favorite summer meals—a cold salmon platter.

Oh yes, our minor catastrophe: I get around my cottage, cooking and going about my daily business, seated on my rollator which clearly says, “Do not sit while in motion.” But if I adhered to that I could hardly care for myself—cooking, carrying things, particularly food and drink, from one room to another. But because I stress the rollator in ways not meant to be, I’ve had bad luck with seats that break. After I bought too many replacement seats, Lewis Bundock, who has done everything large and small for my house for twenty-five years, built me a thick, sturdier seat. Yesterday for the second time, it nearly threw me—one time the screws worked loose, and yesterday one of the plastic grips holding it split. Both times I was quick enough that I didn’t fall off the chair, but it was a true hazard—and scared my daughters more than me. They did a temporary fix, and we have ordered a new chair. I am also trying to make it a point to walk whenever possible and scoot as little as possible.

Stay safe and well, everyone.

Mother’s Day is a wrap

And a lovely Mother’s Day it was. On this day each year, I think of many women—my own mother of course who raised me with love and laughter and taught me to love cooking. She’s been gone thirty years, and I still think of her every day, hear her laughter at some of life’s absurdities, miss the constant presence she was in my life. For years after I lost her I talked to her, and I still wish she was on the other end of the phone so I could say, “How do you cook this?” or “Who is that person in this picture?” or “Remember when….”

I think of course of my daughters and daughters-in-law, mothers of seven children between them, each with her own style but each doing a terrific job raising my grandchildren. I am grateful for them, grateful for their love and the open way they admit me into their families.

And I think of the biological mothers of my four children, women who were brave enough to carry their pregnancies to term and loving enough to give their children to others who would, they hoped, be able to raise them better. I hope I have fulfilled their wishes. I worry about them—do they think about their babies on Mother’s Day? Christmas? Birthdays? I know just a smidgen about each, but a part of me wishes I could reach out and reassure them. Another part of me though is fierce about the fact that the children are mine!

Then there’s Bobbie, who came into my life late for both of us. Thirteen years older than I, she was half soulmate, half mother. We “got” each other like not many do, a wonderful relationship. Hard to believe but Bobbie has been gone probably eighteen years.

It was a lovely day—I talked to each of my three distant children, went to church with Jordan and family, and had an enjoyable supper with Christian’s parents and his sister and family. Bummers were a flat tire on Jordan’s SUV this morning and leaving my leftovers in the restaurant—I had looked forward to meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans tomorrow, but alas, no!

Sometimes I think I am an accidental parent. Oh, of course I played with dolls as a child, but I never really thought about having children, even when I first married. I thought God took care of those things, and if babies came along, fine; if not, that was okay too. But I had the great good fortune to marry a man who desperately wanted children, and babies did not come. Long story short, we adopted the four, and they have been the center and focus of my life for fifty years now. I have always known that writing and publishing came in a distant second to motherhood. One thing I won’t say, though, is that my children are my whole life. I hear other women say that, and I think it places a horrible burden on the children.

I get a fair amount of praise on the job I did of raising four mostly as a single parent. They turned out to be wonderful people—fun, kind, caring, good citizens, great parents (oh, okay none perfect but nothing worth talking about). But I turn the praise aside with the comment that it was the luck of the draw—or sheer dumb good luck. I really don’t think I can take credit for them, but I can and do bask in their love. And as I age, I am so grateful for their care and concern. In some ways our roles have reversed, and I rely on them for advice and guidance. Lord knows, Jordan does much more—all the little pieces of living that I can’t master from a walker.

I am one damn lucky woman.

Who touched the thermostat?

Last night Christian stood in my living room in his overcoat and complained, “These are my winter clothes.” Then he added, “But I haven’t turned on the heat.”

Texans will brag about a lot of things, but one is heat and air conditioning. It seems to be a point of pride to hold out as long as possible before turning on the a/c on in the spring or the heat in the fall. And turn the heat on in May when it should be warm? Perish the thought. It would show weakness.

I had, as I mentioned, turned the heat on in my cottage the night before. The low that night was fifty, and I saw no sense in being miserably cold. When I asked Christian why he hadn’t turned it on in the house, he grinned as though it suddenly dawned on him and said, “I don’t know.”

Tonight my ceiling-mounted units—I forget what they’re called? Ductless?—are still set on heat. Jordan came in, threw open the door, grabbed the remote, and said, “We need a little air stirring.” I told her, quite calmly, that the heat was on and if she’d just turn the unit off all would be well. When she disappears I’ll turn it back on. It’s a constant battle between us—I swear she has Mediterranean blood and is always too warm; my thin Scottish blood make me sensitive to cold.

But when I went into the house for supper, the a/c was on full blast. “It was stuffy,” Christian explained. Maybe so, but it was also chillingly cold. He turned it off for supper.

I suppose that holding off on regulating our temperatures is environmentally sound because it uses less resources. But I don’t think that’s why most people do it.

Apparently, the same logic—or lack thereof—doesn’t apply to cars. It has been chilly again today, and Christian reported that he and Jacob were running errands and it was cold enough he turned on the heater in the car. Then the sun came out and things heated up, and he switched to a/c. Then black clouds rolled in, and he went back to heat. How spoiled are we?

I’ve been doing some research on life in North Texas at the turn of the 19^th century—their method of air conditioning was to put lots of windows in a house and try to capture a cross breeze. Heat was from fireplaces, although many burned coal—think how dirty that was—rather than wood and were later converted to gas.

The a/c makes me think of my mom. We had a window unit in an upstairs bedroom in our house in Chicago where summers could be stifling. Mom would open the house to the early breezes in the morning. Then at the first hint of heat, she’d pull all the blinds until the house was dark. That one lone unit went on, with the theory that cold air falls and it would send air shooting down the staircase to the first floor where we had our living and dining rooms and kitchen. The other bedrooms upstairs—my parents’ and mine—got no benefit. But come dusk, Mom opened up the house again.

Tonight my friend Subie was coming for dinner, and Jordan and I combined to create a great meal. Subie called at the last minute to say she had been struck by a sudden stomach malady, so we dined on plentiful portions of hamburger Stroganoff (my morning occupation) with noodles, green salad, broccoli for Jacob who adores it. Jordan really wanted cheesecake. Her argument was that she doesn’t often, if ever, eat dessert, but for Mother’s Day she wanted cheesecake. Last I heard they were going to Braum’s to fulfill her wish. I retreated to the cottage.

Happy Mother’s Day to all. It doesn’t take giving birth to be a mother. I am an adoptive mother but no less fierce about my children than biological mothers, and I know countless childless women who have done more mothering of nieces, nephews, and strays than those of us who raised children. Love is what makes a mother. May all such women be recognized with love tomorrow.

Mother’s Day compassion—NOT

Mother’s Day should be about love and compassion, right? Please tell that to our legislative leaders, both national and state. While it was a mind-boggling time—historic, to use a more proper term—in Washington last week, the Texas legislature did not get left out of the party.

Currently a handful of right-wing extremist representatives are using parliamentary procedure to block 100 bills because they aren’t getting their way. One of the bills blocked has to do with cutting Teas’ way-too-high maternity mortality rate. Particularly appropriate on Mother’s Day. Sure, it’s called serving for the good of the state.

And state officials have found a swell way to turn young immigrants into haters of the U.S. and terrorists. Just lock them up in a for-profit juvenile facility thinly disguised as a day-care center. Really, guys? You want us to believe that? It is so wrong on so many levels, among them the fact that for-profit prisons should be outlawed. We encourage crime by making it a source of profit—there’s no direct money in educating youngsters and leading them away from a path of crime. So, let’s make a buck!

Second, the immigration law in Texas is harsh enough, tearing children from their mothers’ skirts (often, literally). But to put them in a for-profit incarceration center goes beyond any sort of human decency. Yes, I believe our governor has signed that one into law.

As he did the sanctuary city law which forbids city governments and law enforcement officers from ignoring Texas’ harsh immigration laws. The tiny border two of El Cenzio is suing the state government over the law. The mayor refuses to turn in his fellow citizens. Resist, he says, is the right thing to do.

This may seem like a non sequitur, but I assure you it’s not. Last night my oldest granddaughter went to her high school prom. Her father, mother, and younger sister checked into a hotel for a Mother’s Day getaway and left the keys to the house to Maddie She was encouraged to invite her close friends, boys and girls, for the after-prom all-night party. My son’s reasoning? “I’d rather have them in my house than in a cheap bar or hotel.” His stipulation: they collected all car keys (Maddie knew where they were) and the kids were forbidden to touch his liquor (he’s a connoisseur of fine Scotch). They didn’t hide liquor, jewelry, anything, just opened the houses to the kids.

We’re waiting to hear a report, but I’m betting on Maddie. I have faith in her to do the right thing and to have chosen her friends well. How does this relate to the Texas or national legislatures? I believe if you trust people, they will live up to your expectations. If you distrust them, they think, “Why the hell not?” and do what you suspected them of doing.

I cannot fathom this hatred of immigrants, particularly Mexicans and Muslims. Texas, of course, is focused on Mexican immigrants. They are, we’re told, criminals, rapists, the dregs of society. Funny, some of the Mexican-Americans I’ve met are the nicest people—kind, caring, raising their families to be good citizens. In California, farmers are crying because their crops are rotting in the fields—the immigrant workers are afraid to come to work. Not all immigrants can afford the time and cost of citizenship—a factor no one considers apparently.

If we continue this ban, think how many service industries will be affected. The hospitality industry will take a huge hit—no one to clean hotel rooms, wait tables, tend bar. Who will clean your house and your office? There are a thousand other jobs done by Mexicans. Don’t tell me those jobs belong to Americans—most Americans won’t do a lot of them.

I think we need to get a grip on this immigration nonsense. By all means, deport any known and proven criminals and terrorists. Stop deporting innocent people or those with minor infractions in the long-ago past. Sure, it’s hard to detect terrorists, but we have tremendous law enforcement tools and techniques. Put them to work. And use a bit of compassion. And outlaw for-profit prisons.

Happy Mother’s Day. Sorry for the rant. Maybe I shouldn’t read the news.

PS: My son’s house was just as he’d left it. Yay, Maddie!

Cleaning and cooking—woman’s work isn't done even on Mother's Day

It’s either a sign that I’m back in the real world or I’ve lost my mind, but lately I’ve been cleaning drawers in my kitchen, drawers in my office, bags of junk stuck away in my closet. When I moved in to the cottage nine months ago, I was in pain and not caring about much else. I left the move to my children, mostly Jordan, and they brought what they thought I needed, put it wherever it fit. The longer I lived here, the more drawers became a jumble and I missed things, mostly cooking utensils. I’m gradually taking my life—and my drawers—back.

Today I found note pads—I always need something to jot a note on. Pencils and pens, always needed. But lots of things I didn’t need—three way plug adaptors, drawer pulls and knobs for the house kitchen, not mine; hardware for my flexible screens, Tools. I sent much back into the house, kept what I needed and could find a place for—including screw drivers. They went in a bottom kitchen drawer with a bit more room.

But this was also a cooking day. I made dinner for Jordan, Christian, and friend Amye. Meatloaf, Aunt Reva’s asparagus, Louella’s rice. The meatloaf recipe comes from my weekly dining pal, Betty. She and her husband own the Star Café on the North Side, and this meatloaf is served at lunch every Wednesday at the Star. Aunt Reva was a treasured friend whose ranch/B&B we visited often. We were considered family, and often ate with Reva and her husband, Charles, on the porch overlooking a small lake, while we stayed in a nearby cabin. And Louella? I’ve never met her. She was stepmother to my high school friend, Barbara, to whom I am still close. Louella sure knew how to cook.

And tomorrow is Mother’s Day. I have beautiful roses on my desk, and I spent a couple of hours today filling out the registration and medical history for 23andme, the DNA testing service, another Mother’s Day gift. Tomorrow Christian will cook a big breakfast, we’ll go to church, and then a short break (nap for me)—followed by a meal at Joe T.’s. I haven’t been there since I first lost mobility, about a year ago, so this will be a treat. And also break my routine. The more I vary my routine, the better.

Life is looking good.

The End

Thoughts on motherhood

 Jacob’s homemade card for his mom opened with the line, “I love you the yellowest.” Now I ask you, if that’s not wonderful, what is? There was more to it, but I loved that first line.

Nice Mother’s Day. I’ve talked to all my children and most of their spouses, enjoyed my kind of lazy Sunday at home working at my computer. My friend Linda spent the night, plus Jacob had a friend overnight—the boys were good as gold. Linda meant to stay for Mother’s Day early supper but felt compelled to get home to Granbury to do a sick call and catch up on all she’d left undone while gone three weeks visiting her daughters.

So by eleven, it was just Jacob and me—he was on the iPad, I was on my computer, and he was content—except of course that he was hungry. His mom picked him up at three, and his dad picked me up at five. We visited over wine and too many snacks, ate hamburgers (Christian makes the best hamburgers!), and had a pleasant evening.

Now as I sit down to write, I’m struck by two things: the number of loving tributes to moms on Facebook and the fact that I, for whom children and grandchildren loom so large in my life, never thought about being a mother. I just assumed that happened after you married but I had not dreamed, yearned or longed for that status. The fact that babies didn’t come along didn’t really bother me; it bothered the heck out of my then-husband.

Long story short, we ended up adopting four babies—how we got four, including an Eurasian, is a separate long story. But I don’t know how to put into words the importance these children have always had in my life. I cannot imagine life complete without them. When they were infants and toddlers, I constantly delighted in the wonder of them—as did their father. I could go on forever with funny tales about my brilliant, precocious children.

Their father left when the oldest was twelve and the youngest six, and though everyone marvels at my years as a single parent, I think those were some of the happiest years of my life. Oh, sure, we had our problems—teen-age angst, cars (my brother said mine was the only driveway that needed a stoplight), the night Colin didn’t come home until five and then reported he’d been swimming in a quarry (really? Be still my heart!). But we had traditions—everyone showed up for family dinner on Sunday night with extended family and close friends (I often served twenty), holiday trips, regular meals (gone by the wayside now), and lots of other wonderful memories.

A friend once said to me, “My children are my whole life,” and I replied, “Oh, I don’t think we can give them that burden.” So I try hard to diversify—to maintain friendships and a social life, to keep up with my career. But you know what? My children—and now my grandchildren—are indeed my whole life. I am so richly blessed.

Big bonus: they all love and like each other and can’t wait for any excuse for a family get-together. Wait till they hear the next one will be to move me from the main house to the cottage—whenever.

I am so thankful to be a mother—and that’s my Mother’s Day thought.

Mothering - part two

I've always said what goes around comes around, and that was certainly true for me and motherhood this Mother's Day. I had wonderful visits with both my sons. Took an "executive" bus from Dallas to Houston Friday (that is in itself an experience that deserves a separate post) to spend a long weekend with my oldest, Colin, his wife, Lisa and nine-year-old Morgan and eight-year-old Kegan. Had a great time--good family time, sleeping late, allowing myself to be lazy, pampering myself by not helping with dishes, etc--read two good books, had happy hour by the lake (which is really high), fiddled with email but no serious work.
And ate. Lisa had written to ask what I wanted her to have on hand--my serious answer was green tea and cottage cheese. But then I added a tongue-in-cheek list: caviar, eggs Benedict, smoked salmon, and Cakebread chardonnay. And they got it all except the caviar! We had eggs Benedict Saturday morning, smoked salmon and cream cheese for Sunday brunch, grilled and baked salmon for Sunday supper (with the Cakebread, which really is several cuts above my usual box wine). Colin warned me Friday to be prepared to ignore my diet.
Friday night we went to a popular Mexican restaurant near their house, ate on the patio and laughed a lot. Lisa told me to lean in close to Colin for a picture; when I turned toward him, he was truly "in my face" and startled me so I jumped back, resulting in the two pictures above. Another wonderful photo opp came on Saturday when we went for ice cream cones in "old" Tomball--really charming part of town. I haven't eaten an ice cream cone in forever, but it was fun with grandkids.
Monday I spoke about writing and being an author to four groups of fourth-graders, beginning with Morgan's class. My granddaughter was an excellent escort, taking me from room to room, setting up a display of books, sitting patiently through each presentation. Lunch in the cafeteria with Kegan, and I was ready to go home for a long nap.
Tuesday Colin drove me to the bus, and Jamie met me in Dallas. He brought me to Fort Worth, stayed all afternoon, alternately playing with Jacob and working on his computer. About six he took me to dinner, and we had such good, in-depth conversations that we didn't leave the restaurant until 8:30. Then he came in and we kept talking until I finally said, "You better head back to Dallas." I love those long visits with him--sometimes we relive the kids' childhood, doing lots of "Remember when....?"
Now I need a daughter weekend. But I do feel like maybe I was a good mother after all.



 

Mother's Day thoughts

I've read lots of posts today about mothers, some so wonderful as to be angels and others pretty dysfunctional. It made me probe my thoughts about my mom, but that's for another post, another time, because the day got me to thinking about myself as a mom. I hope I was somewhere between those extremes--not an angel but not terribly dysfunctional.
I never thought much about having children. I just assumed they'd come along after I married. They didn't, and while it didn't bother me much, my then-husband was desperate to be a father. We began adoption proceedings after five years or marriage and too many fertility tests, and within a few short years I found myself the mother of four adopted children, two of mixed race. I loved it, reveled in it, adored those children, even though at one point I had three under three and all in diapers. There is nothing better than the child hanging on to your shoulder who is quite certain you are the center of his or her universe.
Flash forward a few years, and I suddenly was the single parent of four, ages six to twelve. Yes, I had envisioned life without that man but I was scared. I didn't know I could raise four children alone. I somehow did it, because today they are each happy, contributing citizens, successful in their chosen fields, loving husbands and wives and mothers and fathers. And so close to each other emotionally and to me. I am so proud I could bust my buttons. Other people heap praise on me for raising four wonderful children, but I shrug and say "It was dumb luck." And I think it was.
I was busy, working and trying to start a writing career. I thought they would put on my tombstone, "I remember her--she always said, 'Run ng now, I'm busy." They each began to work at sixteen--if they wanted cars they had to pay their own insurance. Then they griped, once doctor's children and expecting the world on a platter; today they are grateful for the experience.
I do know a few things I did right. Meals were always on time, well balanced, and home-made; chores were assigned; rooms were to be kept reasonably tidy (this was only successful with two of the four). But I think the biggest thing is that they knew I loved them and that I was there for them. I remember the spring night that my oldest didn't come home until daybreak--he found me, wearing a big t-shirt and undies, sitting in a chair by the door. His explanation that he'd been swimming in a quarry  brought a torrent of anger, but he knew it was fueled by love and concern. We struggled through the years when teen-age girls hate their mothers and survived, love intact. I heard stories later of things I wish they'd never told me--parties they gave when I traveled on business, etc. Then we were on to proms and too soon weddings, several of which turned into four- and five-day parties.
And then, belatedly, there were seven grandchildren, all close together in age.
Perhaps my proudest moment, the one that epitomizes the love and closeness of my family, was the party they threw for eighty of my nearest and dearest to mark my 70th birthday. Afterwards, many people commented on their strong affection for each other and for me.
I know I am blessed, but motherhood? I don't have a clue about it.