“The love you take is equal to the love you make.”
-John Lennon (Abbey Road)
I’ve hiked for miles up and down the Big Horn Mountains, whitewater-canoed the churning rapids of the Wolf and Peshtigo rivers and inched my way through narrow openings in Kentucky’s Mammoth Cave. I'm proud of these accomplishments, yet, for me, nothing can compare to the challenge and reward of being a mother.
Even before entering kindergarten in 1952, I wanted grow up and be just like my stay-at-home mom. Pretty and kind-hearted, she was a good listener, creative, and artistic. She was fun to be around and had a sense of humor even if the joke was on her. We baked chocolate chips cookies together, swayed to jazz tunes on the radio, and snuggled when she read Mother Goose Tales to me. As a bonus, she sewed many of my clothes.
She was also a cigarette smoker, something that was considered safe, cool and glamorous at the time, so I planned to smoke cigarettes someday too.
Bridge playing was another one of her talents. I didn’t understand what it meant to bid hearts, spades, diamonds or clubs, but since parents planned card parties around the game, I assumed that would also be part of my future.
In the end, I was not successful with all of these goals.
My plan to be a smoker fizzled in seventh grade. At a slumber party, one of my friends dared the rest of us to smoke a cigarette that she had swiped from her parents. Sitting in our pajamas, we passed the contraband around. When my turn came, I held the cigarette between my two fingers like I’d seen Mom do and inhaled only once before practically coughing my lungs right out of my chest. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would enjoy this. For whatever reason, mom quit smoking and I was glad.
I tried to play bridge in my 20’s, but after a few dismal attempts, I soon earned the reputation of being a poor player and gave up the game.
My quest to be a mother had a better outcome due to the fact that I’d begun preparing for the role at a very young age. Already a seasoned sibling by the age of four, shoved out of the limelight by my younger sister Marcia when she was born two weeks before my first birthday, I was delighted when my baby brother Bill was born.
Wise woman that she was, Mom gave my sister and me new baby dolls to play with. I received a Betsy Wetsy doll with a sweet face like the one on Gerber baby food jars. Fourteen inches from plastic head to latex toe, my ‘drink and wet’ doll drank water from a plastic doll bottle through the small hole in her rosebud lips. The water exited through another small hole on her bottom. Her clothes were seldom dry.
By the time I reached my teen years in the early 60s, Betsy had long since been put away. I moved on to more interesting topics found in my Seventeen magazines. Romance and marriage were high on my list of important pursuits if I were to follow in Mom’s footsteps.
I married before I graduated from college. My parents were concerned I wouldn’t finish school since that’s what happened to Mom when she became pregnant with me, but as promised, I finished my degree. I taught intermediate grades for a couple of years, then became pregnant at age 23.
In the weeks before our baby’s birth, I was like a little girl at play, organizing the baby shower gifts I’d received: tiny undershirts, cozy sleepers, hand-knit hats, and soft little booties. Betsy Wetsy never had it so good.
My husband and I attended birthing classes where I practiced what seemed like simple breathing techniques for labor and delivery. The instructor alluded to pain of childbirth, but her description was vague. Mom hadn’t advised me either. She had been under anesthesia for each of us three children.
For me, the delivery was excruciating and complicated. Not having mastered the breathing technique, I hyperventilated. My experience, more difficult and precarious than advertised, had a good outcome thanks to competent doctors.
I was released from the hospital with tiny Phillip after only a three-night stay. Overwhelmed with mommy jitters, I wished I could take a rent-a-nurse home with me since my experience with babies was limited to my baby doll days and a few two- or three-hour babysitting gigs with young children. The few babies I had cared for slept most of the time I was on duty and they rarely required a diaper change.
Once at home, I was mentally unprepared for the sleepless nights. Only after I told Mom that Phillip was crying a lot at all hours did she mention that, I too, had been a colicky baby.
Fortunately, there was a huge upside. Watching him begin to smile, giggle, crawl, and eventually walk made up for all the fatigue, lack of freedom, and endless responsibility. By the time Phillip was a little over one, he had become a darling, blue-eyed, blonde toddler with a charming personality. His presence so overshadowed all the dirty diapers, occasional vomit, and other undesirable aspects of parenting that my husband and I decided to have another.
A little over two years after Phillip was born, baby brother Jon joined the family. Though he took his time before arriving (three weeks after his due date), Jon’s delivery was faster and easier. No complications. No colic. I fell in love all over again. Another cute little guy, he was as much of a joy to watch as he developed and learned new skills as it had been with Phillip.
Having two children doubled the rewards and the challenges. There were more smiles and laughter, but sibling rivalry soon emerged over toys and attention. Though they mostly enjoyed each other’s company, they also got caught up in various tugs of war resulting in periodic screams and tears. Having grown up with only one younger brother, I didn’t understand that boys often wrestled and pounded each other and rarely sat still. Skinned knees, some minor broken bones and a few bloody noses were consequences of their rough and tumble nature. As they got older, they challenged my authority and I had my own tugs of war with them too.
My plan to be a perfect mother who raised perfect children like Harriet Nelson on the “Ozzie and Harriet” show during the mid 50s and early 60s, was impossible. I made mistakes, some little, some big. My sons made mistakes too. Trying to remain on a pedestal wasn’t and still isn’t a comfortable or realistic goal for either a mother or child.
Despite my imperfections, I did some things well. Like my mother, I read, played games, danced, and made cookies with them. I could laugh at myself even when my attempt to sew clothes for my preschool age sons failed miserably. During a “stretch and sew” class, I accidentally sewed the wrong sides of knit fabric together. Each pair of pants had one leg that was plaid and the other solid blue. I had them wear the pants anyway; they occasionally give me a hard time about it.
I wasn’t able to be the “stay-at-home" mom as I had planned. I returned to work as a teacher out of financial necessity when the boys were three and five and had to send them to daycare. I was very sad about this, but in the end, having a teaching career turned out to be a good thing for all of us.
My ultimate goal as a mother was to raise children who were kind and honest, able to survive and thrive on their own, and contribute to society in some way. Though imperfectly executed, my wish has come true. My sons have suffered their share of disappointments, heartbreaks, and shattered dreams, but they remain strong, considerate, resilient, and dependable men.
What I didn’t realize before they were born was that, ultimately, I would also learn from them and they would watch out for me.
Now grown men, they have the ability to lift me up, give me pep talks when needed, and make me smile. They share helpful tips, provide a sounding board, and, on occasion, give me advice. They gently point out when I’m being hard on myself or when negative thinking gets in my way. They do for me what I try to do for them and what my mother once did for me. My mom would be pleased.
There is no set formula for being a good mother. Having children is not for the faint-hearted. The learning curve is steeper than any mountain I’ve climbed, and as unpredictable as any wild water I’ve paddled. There have been moments I've inched forward not seeing what’s ahead as if I were in a cave, but my children provide a source of light and love that helps me find a way.
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What childhood dream came true for you?
What were the challenges and rewards?
