Of laundry and motherhood

Happy mom with her four children

I am growing weary of hearing about Amy Coney Barrett’s seven children. Some days I really wonder if she is being considered for Mother of the Year instead of a seat on the highest court of the land. In fact, I wonder if she’s such a dedicated mother how she will have time for the judiciary

Today I heard that a senator even asked her who does the laundry at her house. Are we kidding? And do we care? Truth we all know is that she has hired help to do the laundry, in spite of her proper reply that she encourages the children to each take responsibility. Can you imagine seven children fighting over whose turn it is to have the washing machine?

When my four (see I can understand her a bit—she just outdid me!) were young, they were on a kid’s TV program called “Hobab” which, so they told me, meant helper. The moderator asked each in turn what they did to help their mommy at home, and my little angels reported that they made their beds and picked up their clothes and did any number of other household chores.

Until the moderator came to Jordan, the youngest and then maybe four or five. She looked at her siblings with amazement and said, “The maid does all those things.” Then asked about the role of policemen, she brilliantly said, “Policemen are your friends. And if you don’t have a Cadillac, they will help you get one.” We have not let her forget those answers to this day, though she has had some hard lessons on who does the laundry and makes the beds and washes the dishes. And she now knows that policemen won’t get you a Lexus (today’s version of the Cadillac).

Last night a friend was telling about a woman who complained that she could barely raise one child, while my friend and neighbor made raising four look so easy. As the mother of four, I had the quick answer to that one: “Tell her that raising four is always easier—they entertain each other.” I didn’t add that with four you don’t have the time or energy to helicopter over one.

I have never forgotten the time a nursery school mother called me to ask if my oldest daughter was free a week from Thursday. I’m sure I gulped. Who in the heck knew? I wasn’t sure what the child was doing in the next ten minutes, and I surely did not keep a social calendar for her. When that same child was ready for pre-school—oh so ready!—she wasn’t eligible for the TCU pre-school where her brother went because of the way her birthday fell. So I visited countless pre-schools. What I found was that many of them specialized in pandemonium. I ruled those out right away—she had that at home, and I sure didn’t need to pay tuition for her to get that at school.

My four kids, the product of a rowdy, happy, childhood, have been known to say to me that they couldn’t handle more than two children. I look at them in amazement, but then each married people who were from two-children families. Is this some kind of conspiracy against big families? Those who married into our family are generally, I think and hope, delighted with our frequent (until pandemic and quarantine) family get-togethers. But occasionally I see one or the other off in a corner with a look on his or her face that clearly says, “How did I get into this situation?”

The other line from my kids which used to crack me up when the grandchildren were little was, “Mom, you just don’t understand how hard it is.” Oh, really? That’s when my thought that four is easier than one or two came roaring back.

Politics aside, I admire Barrett if she is truly that dedicated a mother. Two of her children are multi-racial and adopted (do I have that number right?) and the media seems to invoke sainthood for that. My four children are all adopted, a fact long since put in the past and never talked about because we are a family, a tight, close-knit loving family. And one child is multi-racial or whatever, although as his wife once said to me, “He doesn’t really believe that.”

I am the loving mom of four loving children, and I believe anyone can fill that role. Nope, Judge Barrett, I don’t give you any special chops for having seven children. And, seriously, I don’t think you’re the Mother of the Year.

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.

Parenting and the cozy mystery

Several reviewers have questioned my choice of a single mother of two as the heroine of the Kelly O’Connell Mysteries. Kelly, a realtor/renovator, has two daughters, ages four and six, in the first book of the series, Skeleton in a Dead Space. By book six, Desperate for Death, the girls are a teen and pre-teen. Traditionally heroines of cozies are single women, often involved in a romance which provides a subplot. And they don’t have children. Some reviewers who objected to this change in the status quo found themselves liking the books, for which I am grateful.

Putting those girls in the novels was not a conscious decision. It just seemed to come naturally, perhaps because I was the single parent of four—and now am, though they’re all in the forties. My oldest daughter explained the book to her mother-in-law ass ‘highly autobiographical.”

This morning I sort of figured out why—parenting is what I’ve been doing my whole life and still am. Nine-year-old Jacob wasn’t awake five minutes before he complained that his stomach really hurt. I told him to move around and eat a banana. He did, but called his mother and said he felt worse than the time he had to cancel being an acolyte at church. She told him to lie on the couch for a bit.

All this on a day when I had gotten up extraordinarily early to get both of us out the door at eight o’clock. I had visions of cancelling my PT appointment and lunch date—the first of which would have relieved me and the second disappointed me. After lying not on the couch but on the big chair in my room, he declared he didn’t feel any better.

Me: Jacob, if you can’t go to school, no TV or iPad.

Jacob: I’m grounded from the iPad anyway.

After a pause, he asked: What would I do?

Me: I guess lie on the couch, read a book, and sleep.

Jacob, after another pause: Juju, I am going to school. I just may be a little late.

Me: No, darling. I have to leave at eight for an appointment.

Jacob, startled: I guess I better go get dressed.

He was soon dressed and out the door, probably ten minutes earlier than he’s ever gotten to school before. And with a cheerful disposition.

Tonight he’s sure he fractured his wrist. I told him probably not and gave him an ice pack.

See? That’s why I include children. I know how to weave them into a story. I hope you like Maggie and Em of the Kelly O’Connell Mysteries. I think they’re pretty darn cute and fun for their ages.