Motherhood: an Exercise in Navel Gazing

As Mother’s Day approaches I sometimes pause to reflect on how motherhood has changed me, aside from the obvious, like an outie belly button that used to be an innie, or varicose veins on the back of my legs which resemble more each year (not uninterestingly, I tell myself) a relief map of the New York City subway system.  

There is the inevitable relaxing of standards across the board: from the amount of dust I can tolerate on dining room chair legs (seven years-worth and counting) to the number of times per week I power through another lunch of corn dogs and french fries; from the consecutive hours of sleep I expect each night (five – none of them the “beauty” variety) to the resigned acceptance I will still share my bathtub with naked Barbies when I’m 45.

Mom and Jack

There are perks.  My place as car driver or at very least, shot gun, is never questioned: ergo, I get to pick the music.  Also, as the Giver of Allowance and Keeper of the iTunes Password, I am allowed a certain deference not given Jim (to be honest, this is because the kids figured out a long time ago that with Dad, all you have to do is ask for anything and eleven times out of ten, he’ll say “yes.”)  And of course, the god-like adulation one receives from a three-year old who, even though you have told her over and over her daddy is a doctor, still runs to you with a new owwie, can never be unappreciated.

Mom and Woody

But in my more introspective moments, I pray my kids will be able to see past Everyday Mom to the Inspiring Mom I want to be.  In the quiet morning moments before they get up, when it’s still peaceful, and nobody is begging for Lucky Charms (or any other cereal we never have since I refuse to pay that much for a cup of dehydrated marshmallows and six cups of horse oats which promptly gets dumped into the goat’s pail), I take stock of how far off course I may have steered them by my example, in the daily grind to finish school, do the chores, practice music … and what is the course, anyway?  What am I preparing them for? 

Sure, I tell them, “If you’re going to work at a fast-food restaurant, be the best burger flipper you can be,” (and I refrain from inserting my own preference, “But please let it be at Freddy’s or Chick-Fil-A”).  Are they then confused when I get disproportionately aggravated because they just got the same math problem wrong for the third time?

Mom and Betsy

I’ve felt guilt wondering if my kids will remember me most for my exasperated sighs at their questions, or my too quick sarcasm.  When they are grown, will they believe (based on the amount of time I devoted to it) their mom’s most important task was washing the dishes? 

I remember Mom, who in my memories is usually mopping the floor and mumbling under her breath.  I see the frown lines furrowing her brow and can now admit I put them there.  What were her doubts?  Did she even have time to doubt?  I wish I could ask her.

Mom and Lucy

Failing that, I have to look instead, to my own kids.  And this is where I find hope.

To Jack, Woody, Betsy and Lucy, I am just “Mom” and therefore the standard.  Real kids don’t sit around comparing and contrasting parental motivations versus their actions: that comes later.  If I present a united front with Jim, and neither of us blinks, they won’t know for sure until they are adults how many things we got wrong.  And by then, if God is just, they’ll have children of their own.

In the meantime, even on my worst days, Jack asks me, “How did we do today?” because first of all, he really wants to know, and second of all, he wants to do well.  I remember Betsy, who shows me her latest artwork consisting of glue, staples and too much card stock, and demands, “Tell me what’s great about this, Mom!”  Or Lucy, who innocently asks, “Mom, are you happy or no?”  And I realize, though I most assuredly DO NOT deserve it, I am the center of their universe: if not their inspiration, then at least their anchor.  

One day not long ago, Woody sat transfixed, watching a TV commercial.  The voice-over was of children lauding their mothers’ contributions to society as a result of their employment at General Electric: “My mom makes underwater fans powered by the moon,” said one child.  “My mom makes hospitals you can hold in your hand,” said another.  And, “My mom makes trains that are friends with trees!”   Then, as the music and picture faded, Woody snorted and said, “My mom makes chocolate chip cookies that are better than any of those!”

Right.  I might be overthinking this.