On Motherhood

What is a mother?

The definitions listed on Dictionary.com range from the succinct (…a female parent) to the technical (…a term of address for a female parent or a woman having or regarded as having the status, function, or authority of a female parent).

Singer/songwriter Kate Bush sings, “Mother…stands for comfort” but Roger Waters of Pink Floyd disagrees by saying, “Mama’s gonna make all of your nightmares come true. Mama’s gonna put all of her fears into you.”

Michael Keaton played “Mr. Mom”, Kathleen Turner racks up a high body count in “Serial Mom” and Danny DeVito wanted to “Throw Mama from the Train”, but Barbara Bel Geddes recalls that “…first and foremost, I Remember Mama.”

Whether you’re Mom, Mommy, Mother, Mama or Ma, this Sunday you will be honored alongside millions of other “female parents” for Mother’s Day.

I have a very vivid memory from my earliest days of motherhood. My husband and I brought our newborn son home from the hospital. Our drive home from Boston took twice as long as usual due to my husband driving 25 mph on the Southeast Expressway. “Slow down!” I hissed from the back seat as I hovered over my baby. Was his head tilted too far to the left? Were the straps too tight? Good God, was he still breathing? Phew.

Entering the house with new baby in tow, I heard a distinct popping sound. What’s that? Oh, right, that’s the sound of my safe haven, baby-hospital bubble popping. Taking in the disarray, clutter, hungry cats and recently delivered flower arrangements, my overworked hormones exploded. “What have we done?” I wailed, “We’ve made a huge mistake. We’ll never watch TV or read a book or eat dinner out or go to a movie ever again.”

Thankfully, twelve years later I’m happy to say that eventually we did do all of those things, and more. Last night I even left that “baby” in charge of his younger brother while my husband and I went to a friend’s party. But in those early days of motherhood, it seemed like someone had stolen my previously carefree life and replaced it with a duffle bag of insecurity, fear, anxiety and exhaustion.
What saved me? My own mother, of course. She timed her arrival from New Jersey to coincide with our arrival home from the hospital. And though she was initially nervous about handling my infant son (after all, more than 30 years had passed since her baby was born), she pitched in with rocking, singing, cooking, cleaning and most importantly, soothing (the soothing was for me, not the baby). When it was time for my mother to return to her own home, my mother-in-law arrived to continue the rocking-singing-soothing process.

With both families living out of state, I quickly realized that friendship with other mothers was the key to keeping my sanity. Over the years, I’ve relied quite heavily on my girlfriends, soliciting advice on every subject from rashes to fevers to the color of poop, on teachers and sports and whether my occasional use of an expletive will scar them for life. When your child is puking and there’s no way you can run to the store for ginger ale, a girlfriend always has your back.

The more I experience as a mother, the more I appreciate my own mother. She too was a stay-at-home mom, and I don’t ever remember her having girlfriends over or going to Gymboree or story time at the library or any of the other activities I did to help fill the hours until my husband arrived home and could give me a break from the kids. When my sons forget to pick up after themselves, or leave dirty dishes on the table, or chase each other around the house screaming, I think about how my mother must have felt dealing with the very same issues, except she had three shrieking girls instead of two loud boys. God bless her.

When do you stop being a mother? Never. You are a mother from the time your child is placed in your arms until long after your body has left this earth. I’m blessed that my mother is still with me (not everyone is as fortunate) but I know that long after she is physically gone, the memory of her love and the lessons I have learned from her will stay with me forever.

To all the moms who might be reading this (especially my own): Happy Mother’s Day!

Zen and the art of holding a baby...

There is Zen to be found in the act of holding a baby. My children are eight and eleven, and I am just learning this lesson now.

Last week I received a call from a woman at church asking if I could make a meal for a young couple in our congregation who had just had a baby. Apparently the baby had been born prematurely, was very colicky and was crying almost non-stop when awake (uh-oh). Which was pretty much all the time since the baby also wasn’t sleeping (yikes). The woman explained that she was trying the “young moms” on her list (apparently none of the young moms picked up the phone because she got me). She thought that in addition to the meal, I might be able to provide a little wisdom, companionship and solidarity for the new mother.

The next day, armed with a positive attitude and homemade macaroni and cheese, I drove to the young couple’s house and pulled into the driveway. Before I could even shut off the engine, the front door swung open. And that’s when I saw more than just a tired young woman in sweatpants and a ponytail holding a crying baby. I saw my past.

For the next hour I got to know the young mother (I’ll call her Dee) and her new son. After five weeks in the hospital, the baby came home and Dee and her husband became fully immersed in the all-consuming haze of new parenthood. Many of the challenges Dee faced were the same I had faced eleven years ago: A baby with feeding issues; a husband who worked long hours; no immediate family in the area; a neighborhood made up of older couples with grown children. As we discussed the similarities of our situations, I was transported back in time. Here was another mother who fiercely loved her newborn son, yet felt unprepared and overwhelmed by the sudden changes in her life. I sat and listened and empathized with Dee, and then did the one thing I could do to help: I held the baby.

Ironically, he was perfectly behaved during my visit. As he finished his bottle and burped for me, Dee sat and ate her lunch with two hands (two hands!) As the baby drifted off to sleep in my arms, she tentatively asked if she could wash some bottles and do a few other chores around the house. Shooing her off, I sat and contemplated the snoozing bundle in my arms. As I listened to his soft breathing and watched his lips involuntarily twitch into a smile, I did something I’ve rarely done in the past: focus on just holding a baby and nothing else.

When my older son was born, rather than enjoying the peace of those moments I would worry about the challenges I might face when he woke up. Would he be happy? Hungry? Would he fuss and cry? Would I be able to comfort him? Would I lose my mind? And what about all the things that needed to get done around the house: The laundry, the bottles, and the clutter. When my second son was born, though I tried to savor those moments, I couldn’t help but wonder what the three-year-old was up to in the next room.

Eleven years later, here was my chance to clear my mind and focus all my thoughts and attention on the sleeping child in my arms. To enjoy the warmth and softness of his Carters-clad body; to listen to his rhythmic breathing; to enjoy the sweet scent of his head. I wasn’t multi-tasking or reading or watching television at the same time, I was just immersed in the moment. By the time Dee returned, my pulse rate had slowed and my mind was clear. I felt as refreshed as if I had taken a yoga class (without all the stretching and sweating). Dee thanked me, but honestly, I should have been thanking her.

Driving home, I felt nostalgia for the long-gone infancy of my own children: Would I have enjoyed those quiet moments more if I knew then what I know now? Or was I only capable of relaxing with a baby that wasn’t my own? As I pulled into my own driveway, I decided that the past is the past and that I really do enjoy my children more as they get older.

But if I need another Zen baby moment, I know who to call.