I came to mothering late in life, surprising most – actually all – of my family and friends. In the throes of my 20s, I would often declare, Juliette-ishly, that “Motherhood is an honor that I do not dream of.”
I dream now of being able to walk through the living room without tripping over a Nerf gun or squishing a bag of gummy worms.
I am mother to two sons, 10 and 11, both of whom are “mini-Buddhas.” They pull and push me into experiences that force me to grow in all those uncomfortable ways that often result in changed behavior or new awareness.
My own mother was certainly a role model. I grew up the third in a brood of five, with two older brothers and two younger sisters – all of us coming into the world between 1964 and 1969. Five years, five kids.
During the ’70s, as each of us breached the shores of puberty and propelled ourselves wildly through adolescence, she parented alone, my father distanced by divorce and circumstance.
But while she may have been the only parent, we were mothered by many as she relied heavily on her extended family. Dinners that weren’t at home were with my grandmother or aunts. Auntie Helen would unwrap leftovers, pile food onto plates and wait for one of us to ask the inevitable question: “What is it?”
“Shit on Shinola,” she would say, grinning widely.
Those women are gone from the world now, but I remember their solidarity and their humor.
Ask for help. Remember to laugh. Maybe taste a gummy worm, or shoot a Nerf gun. I know that, in a blink, my living room will be empty of Legos and lonely single boy-socks.
That dream will end, to be replaced with electric shavers and car keys. So today, I’ll honor the memory of my many mothers by serving laughter and leftovers for dinner.
It is an honor indeed.