Mother's Day: Reality Checks

A Soft Place in my Heart by Pino Daeni (Dangelico)

"When's Mother's Day?" someone asked for the umpteenth time, anticipating the same answer. "Nine months after Father's Day," another person quipped and then laughter. Lots of it. I kept doing the math as a little kid and could not figure out why a wrong answer made people giggle. That's how blissfully ignorant childhood used to be.

I'm old enough to remember the good old days when the most dreadful thing about adolescence was a parental talk about birds and bees. We let the media do our teaching now and that IS dreadful. Even as frustrated as I am about a corporate media influencing our children's sex lives, I keep my nostalgia in check. There were never any good ol' days to go back to. We must live and learn and fix the mistakes our ignorance makes. In spite of the problems we've yet to resolve, women's lives are better and safer today than they've ever been. And that includes a mother's freedom to love her children. To want her children.

Prior to birth control, children were consequences. Not every couple celebrated pregnancy when they already had more  mouths than they could feed. My boomer generation is the first to experience reliable birth control allowing us to choose when and if we wanted children. While some people might view that choice as a bad thing, I believe "choice" moves our species one step closer to loving children as the miracles they are. Because we want them. I wanted my babies and would scoop them into my arms and tell them so, kissing their cheeks and marveling that something so precious was in my care. I didn't give it any thought, telling my children how much I wanted them. It was a natural instinct to confess they were a desire of my heart and a blessing in my life and I was grateful to be their mother. 

Last year, my daughter was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. She's unable to work, has no promotions, raises or performance ratings to help her feel good about herself---to sustain her self-esteem. It's a daily struggle loving herself for "being" rather than "doing". Even though we knew our culture was obsessed with independence and success, we didn't realize the depth of our socialization. She struggles with depression like many people with incurable diseases when they can't work, can't "do," and are dependent on caregivers. She had been on her own financially for two decades but is unable to care for herself today. It's tough. Anyone can understand how difficult this would be---especially in a society denigrating dependency and joking about middle-age children living in Mom's basement. (it's a beautiful basement---don't get any notions about my basement looking like a prison!). 

My daughter says what sustains her self-worth now are the warm memories of being scooped in her mother's arms, covered in kisses and told, "I wanted you sooooooo much!" She made me sob when telling me this story because it took forty years for me to understand the importance of a mother's instinct to love and cuddle and cherish the child she wanted. It's fundamental to a child's self-worth. It's essential to a child's sense of self.

 

That was kind of tear-jerkerish, as Mother's Days tend to be, so the next two stories will leave you laughing. That's my intention anyway---for you to laugh with me. This glimpse into our family is a reality check against Sentimental Mothering. I hope they illustrate the reality of mothering children who will, if they are allowed to be children, challenge her patience and her ego.

Mother and Child by Pino Daeni (Dangelico)

Story One

My daughter was fond of After School Specials (1972-1997). She was a clever tease, smart as a whip and impulsive as hyper-active kids tend to be. She liked to organize playtime and direct her friends which caused problems for her teachers at school. If she thought it, she did it, not giving mind to the consequences. As one teacher said, "Your daughter doesn't know who the teacher is."

Well, being of patient temperament, I handled her behavior in stride. Most of the time. I wasn't perfect and won't pretend to have been which probably means I came fairly close to being exactly the mother she needed. This is what she tells me anyway. I'm not sure she thought that when her tantrums were unsuccessful, no matter how dramatic or shocking they might have been.

One day we were shopping in a grocery store when she was about six or seven years old. Without fail, she was begging for this and bartering for that and appealing to God to deliver just ONE package of M&M's and she'd never cause trouble again. Her prayer was not answered and her mother did not cave. God and I both knew that sugar made her climb walls and we didn't have time to talk her down. She was upset. So upset that she glowered in the queue. Noticing her complaints had attracted people's attention, she sucked in her tummy and made a hungry face. And honestly, there was precedent for manipulating tired shoppers. More than one weary soul had pleaded for me to "give in", for the sake of their sanity. Realizing I would not relent, they sneaked Snickers in her pocket and everyone checked out in peace.

This time however, my daughter wasn't crying because she had evidently matured beyond the acceptable crying stage. Now she was into Performance Art. Maybe capturing everyone's attention had inspired her but GodOnlyKnows why she did this. I bent down to ask her to calm down and reached out to cup her chin in my hand. She threw her hands up to protect her face with both palms facing outward. Peering through outstretched fingers, she shouted, "Not the FACE, Mommie! Not the FACE!" 

And then she laughed and laughed and people offered to buy ME a drink. 

Yea. Don't let perspicacious children watch After School Specials about child abuse.

The Little Prince by Pino Daeni (Dangelico)

Story Two

Our family moved to France when our children were young and we'd visit the USA annually, to remind our kids they were Americans. We traveled to London in 1986, just as airports tightened security after terrorist attacks and bombings.

We were waiting in the Customs line with our passports when security guards carrying sub-machine guns encircled us. They separated us from astonished bystanders and motioned for us to follow them into an interrogation room. (I knew my husband was an American Asshole but didn't expect the Brits to kill him for it).

We were seated in a small room and people were staring in the windows. Our kids looked like they were ready to throw up and I was doing my best to calm Mt. Vesuvius before he spewed profanities and security guards riddled our bodies with bullets. A British officer entered the room accompanied by two guards with guns over their shoulders. The officer was holding a manila envelope with a tell-tale bulge in the center. He carefully and slowly opened the envelope and retrieved, you guessed it: a toy gun.

Yea. Don't give your kids toy pistols if you're traveling overseas.

The three of us turned towards the shortest kid in the room, who happened to be focused intently on the floor, merging with the linoleum. He didn't say a word, he'd probably swallowed his tongue. "Is that your gun?" I asked. "The one we told you NOT to bring in your suitcase? The one we told you to leave at home?" (making sure the officer knew we'd done our parental duty and if someone had to pay for this crime, we were willing to sacrifice our son).

My stern voice convinced the kid to confess. Yes, he had packed his gun even though his mother told him not to and could he please have it back 'cuz it was a wild west six shooter special cap-gun. It had sound effects. The officer ignored his request but I noticed a slight grin on his face. "I'm sealing your gun in this security envelope," he said. "Your parents can pick it up at the baggage claim. And never," he lowers his voice, "disobey your parents again." It takes a tribe to raise a kid these days. 

If you go to London, be sure to look for a vintage envelope going round and round the luggage carousel!

Happy Mother's Day everyone!

Hugs,

CZ