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.

Reflections on a Week of Food

I seem to have eaten out a lot this week, and the menus have varied wildly--from  a chef's salad and meatloaf to fresh crab, oysters and a charred artichoke--oh and there was a great scoop of tuna salad (my favorite food perhaps). It as strange to have an egg and toast for breakfast, when I usually eat cottage cheese, and I looked with awe at my tablemates who ate ham and eggs and hash browns and biscuits. If I did that I'd be uncomfortable--and soon fat as a blimp.
I often say I travel on my stomach. I like nothing better than finding a wonderful restaurant in a new city-the domed restaurant in Edinburgh comes to mind--but I equally like going to old familiar haunts, like Harrys Roadhouse, Pasquales, and Tecolote in Santa Fe. So does food define my life?
I've given some thought to writing a memoir--I'm sort of between projects, a place I find uncomfortable, though I have several possibilities on the horizon, and some projects underway that will require attention again soon but not yet. So what do I do in the meantime?
The trouble with memoir is deciding how I want my life defined. In spite of my love for good food and cooking, I don't think that's the main thread. I'd probably define my life in terms of the four children I raised as a mostly single parent--but where's the story in that? Too many women have that experience and probably many in much more difficult circumstances than me. And often without the wonderful adults my children have become. But readers want trauma--not the happy life I lead.
I've thought about anxiety, which has plagued me all my life and limited my opportunities. Once in my thirties I consulted a psychiatrist who predicted that if anything ever happened to my husband (it did--he absconded for life with one of his students) I would probably live close to a university and work there. Still makes me mad because it proved true--except I've done a lot that many people with anxiety wouldn't dare do, like traveling to the Caymans and Scotland. Still I don't want it to be the defining factor of my life.
And then there's my career in publishing and my work as an author of over 60 books (I've stopped counting but could figure it out if I had to). To other writers, it might be an interesting story, but it still doesn't define my life the way my children and grandchildren do.
And how would I work in the Scottish heritage that is so important to me? And my liberal beliefs which are part of me? And my faith? How would you organize a memoir? Chronologically? By subject? The whole thing is a conundrum to me.
I actually did write a food memoir--Cooking My Way Through Life With Kids and Books--but it sure doesn't tell the whole story. It does have recipes however.
I give up. I'm going to read a mystery now.

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.