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How different can the experience be, from one mom to the next? Learning to nurse, to care for diaper rash and diagnose ear infections are universal basic training for every mom. We become homework tutors, pseudo- doctors, cheerleaders and unrelenting worriers as our offspring begin to venture into the world beyond our control. Like the notches on the doorframe that mark our children's growth, there is a certain predictability in all that is mothering. From the generational hand-off that takes place at baby showers where birthing stories are told, to the late-night, tearful phone calls to your own mom, the job description has remained virtually unchanged for all of history. A closer look, however, reveals that mothers are as unique as their own children are different from one another. And life itself, while perpetuating our role, also defines it. Consider the essays that follow, penned by women who, while sharing all the joy that is motherhood, do so within worlds that spin on their own axis. Genevieve Anton is raising lovely Alison Mae, who while physically challenged, has been a blessing from birth. Genevieve has questions, but also answers, as to how God selects mothers for disabled children. An admitted "older" mom, Gail Thomas struggles with raising a teenage boy in a world where today's values collide with her own. Differences in age and upbringing challenge her to raise a forthright man despite the obstacles on the path to his adulthood. Imagine this. Sueanne Sylvester's two teens are on their way. Colic and babysitters are a thing of the past. And then...twins. Kaci Slymen is the mother of two children under age 5. Though her day is a flurry of mothering tasks - diapers, books and fingerpainting - a simple splinter and a child's pain reveal the essence of her role. A once reluctant mom, Lisa Alvarez finds that in creating a loving and secure world for her young son, she has, in fact, rebuilt her own world, reconciling with her past and looking with hope to the future. ...Looking with hope to the future... In that, we all share. - By Kimberly A. Porrazzo The twin blankets By Sueanne Sylvester After my aunt died, my cousin discovered two baby blankets my aunt had recently made. My uncle and cousin were quite puzzled, considering how ill she had been and the fact that there were no children, grandchildren, nieces or nephews at a stage in their life that they might logically have children. "Why are you telling us this story?" my teenage daughter asked with some hesitation. Elizabeth and her older brother Ray were suspicious. Why had I called a family meeting? Family meetings were not good. "Well, Aunt Mary must have had a premonition. I'm pregnant." "Two blankets?" "Twins." Unfortunately, this mystical announcement was not enough to guarantee acceptance by the teens who quickly did the math to determine how old I would be when the babies started kindergarten (50) and graduated high school (63). The twins would be TOTALLY embarrassed to have parents so old. When I first found out we were having twins, my reaction was, phew, as long as they're not both boys. Andrew and Matthew just turned 2. The terrible 2s times two. Matthew alone is as busy as twins. He's always the first one to figure out how to climb out of the crib, open the fridge and dump the soy sauce (in the fridge), start the dishwasher, and somehow get his hands on a sharp knife, even though the item is secured in a baby-proofed drawer. Matthew thinks his name is Andrew and calls me "Money" instead of "Mommy." Hmm, does that come from hearing the older kids make financial requests on their way out the door Friday nights? My husband says he's glad he married "Money," especially with the price of diapers. Andrew knows his name is Andrew. However, because Matthew insists his name is Andrew, Andrew also calls Matthew Andrew. If that paragraph left you exhausted, add a border collie (called border collies because they're always bored), a bichon (that looks like a sheep, ideal for the bored collie to herd), and my always positive and energetic husband Dan (who keeps trying to convince me to hike across the Grand Canyon with the twins). Ray, age 19, is a freshman at the University of San Diego. Elizabeth, age 16, is a junior at Corona del Mar High School. That means my husband and I are concurrently looking at colleges and preschools, paying for real cars and Matchbox cars. Recently, I called my daughter's old preschool to check out registration. The wait list is on family No. 3200. Luckily, my old number was No. 220. I can register the boys in any class I want. If only college applications were that easy. Having twins is like having little ambassadors of goodwill. Cranky-looking people smile when they see them. And everyone stops to talk to you. I learned not to go to the grocery store on senior discount days; my ice cream melts. "Are they identical?" Hmmm...they don't look anything alike. "You look so good for having twins!" What is that supposed to mean? Am I supposed to look fat and exhausted? "Are these your first children?" Thank heaven for hair coloring! And my favorite comment, "My, you have your hands full!" I used to respond that if I had a dime for every time I heard that, their college would be paid for. Now, I actually ask for the dime. We're thinking Ivy League. I look at my older children and remember so clearly how precious the time is and how fast they grow. I look at the babies and remember my older children at each stage, learning to crawl, climb stairs, talk. Having Andrew and Matthew makes those memories of Ray and Elizabeth growing up that much crisper and sweeter. I doze off to sleep rocking Matthew and wake up remembering sitting up all night with Ray. I see Andrew singing and dancing and picture Elizabeth's rendition of "Mary Had a Little Lamb." What a gift. I worry the time it takes to raise little ones takes away attention from the older ones at critical stages in their lives. It's hard for them to realize I put just as much love and care into raising them. Maybe even more, because it was all new and overwhelming. I hope Ray and Elizabeth appreciate I wanted more children because they are so wonderful. And I think having babies around, watching them develop into unique personalities and loving them will make Ray and Lizzie better parents someday. Until then, crying kids and dirty diapers are very effective means of birth control. Motherhood has been compared to a balancing act and a juggling act. At our house, integrating two families with children of such diverse ages is a complete circus. But to quote my husband Dan, "I wouldn't trade it for the world." Sueanne Sylvester writes from Newport Beach. God and mothers By Genevieve Anton An article written by Erma Bombeck has been circulating on the Internet and recently landed in my e-mail box. Erma was musing about a question I have often asked myself in recent years - how God decides which mothers will be given a disabled child. Most women become mothers by choice, some by social pressures and a couple by habit. This year, nearly 100,000 women will become mothers of handicapped children. Did you ever wonder how mothers of handicapped children are chosen? Erma envisions a conversation between God and his angels, who take notes in a giant ledger as he carefully pairs mothers with infants and assigns each a patron saint. Finally, he passes a name to an angel and smiles, "Give her a handicapped child." The angel is curious. "Why this one, God? She's so happy." "Exactly," says God. It's been four years since Alison Mae came crashing into our lives, shattering our expectations and forever changing our family. This dainty little girl with rosebud lips was everything we had hoped for - beautiful, a sweet nature, full of smiles - and everything we had feared - medically fragile, physically disabled and mentally weak. To this day, despite dozens of diagnostic tests, no one can tell us what is "wrong" with Alison - or what her future might hold. There were no warning signs, no family history of disabilities, no major problems with the pregnancy or delivery. But just seven weeks after her birth, doctors told us Alison needed constant oxygen, a feeding tube in her stomach, breathing treatments and up to 10 different medications just to survive. The news was so devastating and terrifying that even today it's painful to recall my response. In the hospital, I felt like an accident victim wandering aimlessly through the wreckage of my life. I cried constantly - for my daughter, for myself, for my family - a flood of sloppy tears triggered by anything: the sympathetic look on a doctor's face or the sight of a healthy toddler running down the hall. I felt my heart tear with anger as I threw away parenting books with cruel titles like "What to Expect When You're Expecting." And yes, I constantly asked my God, "Why me?" "Could I give a handicapped child to a mother who does not know laughter?" God told his angel. "That would be cruel." I remember watching my own mother lean over Alison in her hospital crib, tickling her chin and smiling as if nothing were wrong. I thought to myself, "I can't do that. What's wrong with me? I'm her mother and every time I look at her I burst into tears." I simply couldn't see past the oxygen mask and the tubes and the harsh beep of monitors to bond with my daughter - yes, my daughter. My husband, Mike, and I already had a 4-year-old son, Christopher. I went right back to work and never hesitated to hire a babysitter so we could get away for a while. I loved my job, enjoyed traveling, needed my space. In short, I've always been happy with my life and my first child was absorbed into that world. Alison would be different - as would my life - and I knew it even then. "But has she patience?" asks the angel. "I don't want her to have too much patience or she will drown in a sea of self-pity and despair. Once the shock and resentment wears off, she'll handle it." And I did. Not because I wanted to, but because I had no choice. It doesn't sound noble, but it's the truth. I've always believed that you work with the hand you are dealt, and it doesn't do any good to agonize over what might have been. Eventually, I stopped asking, "Why me?" and adopted a more long-term philosophy: "Why not me?" In fact, I met moms from all walks of life in similar, or even more difficult, situations. Everyone handled it differently - some were inspiring in their dedication, others were still struggling like me. "I watched her today," God said. "She has that feeling of self and independence that is so rare and so necessary in a mother...She'll have to teach the child to live in her world and that's not going to be easy." We wanted things to be as normal as possible. We spent extra time with Christopher and encouraged him to cuddle, play and take care of his little sister. We took car trips instead of flying, put Alison and her oxygen tank in a backpack to hike and set up miniature ERs in hotel rooms. We fit dozens of doctor visits, therapy sessions and diagnostic tests into the weekly routine. I couldn't let go of the notion that somehow Alison would be diagnosed or "grow out of it" or be cured, even though I now knew that would not happen. Slowly, without my realizing it, I began to accept my child as she was and stopped comparing her to other children her age. Although every once in awhile, Mike and I still look at our daughter and wonder what she might have been like if only... "This one is perfect. She has just enough selfishness." The angel gasps, "Selfishness? Is that a virtue?" God nods. "If she can't separate herself from the child occasionally, she'll never survive. Yes, there is a woman I will bless with a child less then perfect. Less than perfect. Your definition of what is perfect, and even what's OK, can change over time. Alison has taught me patience, appreciation of small things and the meaning of unconditional love. She's a lovely girl with soft, fine hair who smiles constantly, loves to hug long and hard, and entrances everyone she meets. My softest moments are in the morning just before she wakes when I trace her lips with my finger. She doesn't realize it yet, but she is to be envied. She will never take for granted a `spoken word.' She will never consider a `step' ordinary. When her child says `Momma' for the first time, she will be present at a miracle and know it! When Alison turned 2, her health improved, but her developmental delays became more apparent with each passing month. We had clearly entered a new phase in which we had to prepare Alison for the life ahead. We began negotiating a labyrinth of paperwork, assessments and endless meetings to obtain government services, special education and part-time nursing care for Alison. We explained to Christopher as best we could why Alison couldn't walk, feed herself or say something as simple as "momma" - and might never do these things. It was harder for Alison to fit in with other children, and strangers began looking at her differently. But I was stronger now, and it didn't matter. "I will permit her to see clearly the things I see...ignorance, cruelty, prejudice... and allow her to rise above them. She will never be alone. I will be at her side every minute of every day of her life because she is doing my work as surely as she is here by my side." "And what about her patron saint?" asks the angel, his pen poised in midair. God smiles. "A mirror will suffice." This is where Erma got it all wrong. I have countless patron saints and guardian angels, here on Earth as well as in Heaven. Some I have known all my life, others have reached out to me, instinctively seeing I was in need. When I look in the mirror, I see an average mom in an extraordinary circumstance who got a lot of help along the way. I love Alison and can't imagine what my life would have been like without her. And today I can look God in the eye and say, "Yes, Lord. You were right. Who else but me?" Genevieve Anton writes from Tustin. Extraordinary love By Kaci Slymen "It hurts!," shrieks my son, tugging back his palm and casting me a confused "you are my mommy, make it stop hurting" look. I set the tweezers down and try to comfort him. "Splinters only hurt until you take them out." I press his palm flat, trying to rush. The splinter is large, embedded. I look at it with dread. I often wish I could wave my hand and the splinter - or whatever ailment of the day - would magically float away, tears and all. As the mother of a 4-year-old and 1-year-old, I am relatively new to this profession and certainly no expert of a mother. In fact, I am quite ordinary. Most days I find myself overwhelmed with diaper changes and phone calls, and all too often concerned with how to get through the day's schedule. Take a typical morning: First, I get everyone dressed, then prepare breakfast. After breakfast, I clean the crumbs from the floor, rinse the dishes, and scrape jam from the back of two chairs. I might also read a few board books, build a block structure, allow my nose to be "honked" three times, and, finally, manage to get matching socks and shoes on what seem like 18 wiggly feet. All this before 8 a.m. When I first became a mother, I was surprised by all the duties involved. I had the misconception that becoming a mom meant a lot of time for reading, watching soap operas, maybe earning a master's degree. I have learned over time to become "grounded." My priorities have shifted so that now my children are the focus. If they need food, I am a chef. If they need answers, I am a librarian. If they need to run and climb at a park, I am their friend. But most of all, I am their mother. And slowly I am gaining the talents and skills necessary to take on this role. I know, for example, to lay out clothing for the next day, keep the diapers well-stocked, and plan dinners a week in advance. I try hard to answer questions about soccer, mathematics, the cosmos. I practice my repertoire of songs and animal noises so I can entertain when necessary. Small tasks are becoming second nature. I automatically pick up objects when I walk into a room, lug toys to restaurants, stuff a tissue into my pocket. Phrases such as, "Not in your mouth" and, "Watch your step" seem commonplace. I am even developing a good listening ear. I hear the refrigerator opening, the stairway gate closing, the remote control being clicked, dogs barking, and of paramount importance - calls for "Mommy" in the night. Once in awhile I even manage to surprise myself. Just the other day, I mastered the diaper change. My technique: keep one hand on baby while the other hand gets a wipe from the box. Keep another hand on a blanket so baby stays warm, another to clean, another to reach for the diaper, and another to dangle a toy. Do all this while holding the phone and achieving, somehow, to open the diaper pail on the first try. And yet, with my son's pain becoming more pressing, I try hard just to get the tweezers to work. He makes an effort to be brave, but yanks his hand away again. The tweezers scrape him and he starts to cry. I feel it inside, in every part of me. In my haste, I have hurt him. The emotion is deep, and I too start to cry. I am no longer concerned with the day's schedule. I am no longer worried about laundry, cooking, cleaning. I sense his pain, want him safe, pray that I can make it all better. And this I realize is motherhood. All the schedules, all the chores, all the errands, they are happenstance, elements of mothering. Motherhood is a much deeper emotion. Motherhood is what allows me to slow down and appreciate the day. It is an overriding sense of love, an eternal bond that I have with my children and my husband. This love allows me to take the everyday tasks of mothering and make them special. I create sandwiches shaped like animals and eat interesting creations like mango peanut butter bananas with a smile. I read the same books again and again with enthusiasm, and include my son's favorite characters in his bedtime story. Motherhood is about seeing paint spilled on new clothes and choosing to complement the picture - pumpkin? happy face? blob from Mars? It is about watching white rice stick to every inch of my child and have it remind me of a day at the beach. It is sharing in the curiosity of a newly found ladybug, digging in the mud, seeing all there is to see every 5 square feet of a walk. Motherhood for me happens hourly, if I listen for it. It is specifically in that moment when my daughter gets suddenly quiet, furrows her brow, and crosses her eyes as she concentrates on turning the page of a book. Or that moment when I hoist her into the air and she squeals in delight. Or when I pack a surprise picnic lunch and my son gives me a big hug in gratitude. But most often, motherhood happens in the night, when I linger to watch my children sleep and know that they are a most precious gift. I know I will always give them a mother' s love - unconditional and unending. I know that motherhood is extraordinary. I wipe a tear, mine, and try again. This time, the splinter comes out. I hug my son in joy. "I'm so sorry about your splinter. I don't want to see you hurting," I say, holding him tight. He seems to sense that I need the hug more than he needs a Band-Aid. "You are a part of me," I whisper by way of explanation. He is quiet a moment, then asks, "Is that love, Mommy?" More than you know. "Yes, it is love." Kaci Slymen writes from Mission Viejo. My teenager By Gail Thomas Looking back, the transition of our son from a toddler who gave multiple hugs and kisses to a confrontational "in your face," "don't touch me," 6-foot-2- inch, 15-year-old, seems to have been instantaneous! Was I prepared? No! Do I feel accomplished or successful as a mom? No! Do I have the answers for getting the job done most effectively? No! However, I continue to do my best to seek answers and to persist at the challenge to become an accomplished mom. Part of my challenge in raising our son Brad is the different environments in which we were raised. I grew up in an extended family structure in the South. The community in which we lived was a tight-knit village. Everyone looked the same and shared similar values and lifestyles. Born in the U.S., our son had lived in six different houses by age 9, gone to 12 different schools, lived in four different states AND in South Africa. Unlike myself, he was born and continues to grow up in a multicultural environment where most of his peers do not look like him. In addition to being an only child, he is a child of older parents (mom 53 and dad 69). Furthermore, his older parents are "old-school" parents who are trying their best to raise Brad to fulfill his potential in a world that increasingly seems counter to our efforts. I am very proud of my culture and upbringing. Thus, I attempt to share my values and beliefs with our son. However, it is often difficult for him to grasp. Like most teens, he is more interested in "fitting in" and being accepted by his peers. In the midst of his search for personal identity and peer acceptance, I encourage our son to seek self-acceptance and identity and to be a leader, not a follower. Brad often perceives my messages as "nagging," not as encouraging. Like many of his peers, our son is a fan of violent video games and underground rap music. I find most of both to be offensive and disturbing. It saddens me that what seems to sell and what many of our youth appear to accept is: violence not peace; drugs not prayer and effort; massive consumption and materialism not moderation and realism; and peers, not parents. Engaging in meaningful dialogue, "reasoning" with our son about these issues and coming to mutual understanding are far from being a "done deal" in our home. Seeing the relevancy and value of what is taught in school to his life is an additional topic of controversy with our teen. Brad sees little connection between what he learns in school and real solutions to his problems and concerns. Therefore school is not his favorite place. At Soka University where I teach, my students and I often discuss the goals of education. Some include: to empower students; to give them a better understanding of self and their environment; to teach life skills and to motivate them to serve others. I struggle with trying to teach these goals as a parent. It is also a challenge to get my son to accept the reality that parenting is not a "democracy." Children of my day accepted all of the above. Finally, making meaningful time for my son, in the midst of a busy life and world is an ongoing challenge. However, I have made this a top priority. I recently read that children need our presence, not our presents. This, along with the limited time before Brad is out of my reach, made Brad a clear priority for me! Dr. Joyce Ladner notes in her book, "The Ties That Bind," that "today's children, many of them blessed with more material wealth and education than any generation before, greet the world with a sense of uneasiness at best, and at worst with a sense of despair." I don't think the current state of world affairs offers much security to our children. Therefore, I try my best to give our son hope, UNCONDITIONAL love, support, and most importantly the timeless principles and values that continue to sustain me. Some of them include: being and living one's true self; being able to distinguish between "good and bad" friends; consistently caring about and helping others; working to create value; being a person of integrity and honesty. I try to remain an optimistic parent in good and trying times. I also remind myself that parenting is a privilege and that I stand to learn as much from our son as I am attempting to teach him. I also continue to work on strengthening my faith, my inner core and especially my maternally endowed "mother-wit." In addition, I am attempting to implement greater self-care, and to remember that when Mom's personal storehouse is empty, she has nothing to give! I have joined a wonderful group of parents of teenagers in our local area. We are a great source of support to each other. We realize that it does take an entire village to raise our children. Gail Thomas writes from Laguna Hills. Way back then By Lisa Alvarez More than 20 years ago, dating my husband-to-be, I was blunt. Marriage? No. Children? Never! I wasn't wife or mother material. Of course, I was only 22. Now what surprises me most about that bold proclamation is not how terrifically inaccurate it was, but how presumptuous I was to think that my fella might have even considered me wife-mother material after a couple of lunch and dinner dates. And how wonderful it was that he continued to pursue me despite my resolve to avoid commitment. My pronouncement had more to do with who I was then, not who I might become over the years. And it's the person I became, who decided, finally, years after the marriage that was never to be, to become the mother she never thought she would be. I understand my younger self and why she didn't see marriage or children in her future. She hadn't seen them in her past. And she knew, even then, that a successful union and parenthood demanded much. I like to think it was out of respect, not ignorance, that she spouted out her determination to remain single and childless. I like that about her still. Years later, I helped build and maintain the kind of committed relationship that eluded my own parents. I carefully resuscitated family ties that didn't exist when I was growing up. I enjoyed the security of friendships. I'd finally achieved what I thought was important for any child to have, what my younger self had missed. And I began to wonder, as I watched my cousins' children run around at family gatherings, what it might be like to grow up surrounded by so much love, so many faces gazing at you, knowing who you were and loving you. The world would likely look different to a child who was that much loved. I realized that any child of mine would now have what I hadn't - and that was a good thing: intact family, immediate and extended, financial and emotional security and parents who wanted, who really, really wanted a child. And so, in my late 30s, I proceeded to embrace motherhood. Obstacles and challenges I met, both physical and psychological and typical for a woman, as they say, of my age. These only strengthened my resolve. Each miscarriage felt like a test - another opportunity to reconsider the endeavor - and to recommit to it. Motherhood, for me, began, not in birth, but in decisions that led to it. In the difficult months before conception and the nervous nine months plus of pregnancy. By my own spiritual and psychological reckoning, I've actually been a mother far in excess of my toddler's 20 months. Of course, dreaming and imagining and planning parenthood is trumped by the real work. What little housekeeping I do in what little house I have (a recent check revealed that my family of three lives in 630 square feet!), I do at night. Husband and baby sleep in one room. I prowl the others, restoring some semblance of order so the morning will be easier. I complete too little before I too give into sleep and join the soft snorers in our family bed. Coffee cups and plates are washed. Silverware can wait. Clothes are folded but not put away. The tablecloth is changed but not ironed. It hangs less than perfectly across our broad, overburdened dining table. But lately one area that commands my attention is the universe of the living-room floor. A miniature world sprawls across it these days, urban sprawl gone amok. A zoo next to the fire station and pet store. A revolving traffic circle and a cheery yellow school bus ensures adequate public access to transportation, as does the oval train track. A circus has also come to town and set up permanent residency nearby. On my nightly rounds, I find this world in chaos. Car accidents, torn-up track, runaway elephants, AWOL firefighters. At first, I told myself that I was picking up toys in order to avoid accidents at night. Daddy walking into darkness with a wailing babe in arms might trip over a plastic polar bear and land on top of a fleet of fire engines. Such scenarios should be avoided. Safety first! Most accidents occur in the home! Soon I realized there was more to it. I find solace in this act of modest restoration. It is, I realize, a symbolic activity - and this isn't just the English professor in me talking. I like to think that when our child toddles out in the morning and discovers a newly repaired world on the rug, there is some measure of joy and hope and wonder in that daily miracle. It is, of course, different from the broken world I find each morning when I unfold the newspaper. And yet, there's a connection. Clearly, my child has allowed me to restore some order to my own life, my world. In turn, I hope to give to him a world, both small and large, both imaginary and real, that might be put together again even when it seems beyond repair. Lisa Alvarez writes from Laguna Beach. |
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