Letting go

I currently have one dead laptop and two printers that shred paper. Though I stumbled upon the instructions for replacing the defunct inverter to my daughter’s laptop this summer, I have checked the internet forums and I can’t seem to find any hope. I know computers are supposed to be as disposable as old TVs, but I have a hard time letting them go. A computer is more than just a tool for my work. My characters breathe through them. I get attached.
I remember my first Macintosh fondly. It was situated in the attic, far enough from the sounds of my young children to allow me to write. I had a small computer station and a roller chair, a wrought iron table from my mother upon which I placed my thermos of coffee and the cordless (not cellular) telephone. This was actually before caller ID became a popular feature, and I would generally get sucked into calls even when I wasn’t looking for a distraction. If I lost a sentence because of an inconvenient telemarketer, the family heard about it over dinner.
My three children’s photos were nearby along with whatever inspirational pictures or quotes I push-pinned into the wall. I could swivel my way into a file cabinet which contained works of mine dating back to high school, lean left and pull out a box or bubble mailer to send out my work, and manage to avoid the glare of the window behind me with a Velcro hung green screen. The attic had no heat of its own, so I relied upon the laws of physics to float enough my way. I was rarely disappointed.
I wrote seven novels and two plays on that computer, and never once did it fail me. As my kids grew older and began to spend more time out of the house, it seemed silly to make the commute all the way to the third floor. I began to write scripts on a laptop, converted my files to Windows, and edited my unpublished manuscripts on the family computer. Eventually, I let the Mac go on to another family where I’m sure it is still working beautifully. At least I like to think of it that way.
My dead laptop had once been revived by a computer expert who replaced and restored my hard disk and my files. My husband was after me to upgrade then, but I resisted. I did harvest most of the files, so I haven’t suffered a major loss of material. But I feel sad just the same. My keyboard is my instrument, and I don’t like to see it lifeless.

Back to School

These last few weeks of August always seem like the end of the year to me, more so than in December. I see the hint of color in the leaves and know my children will soon be going back to school, another year older, another grade closer to college. We take pictures the first day of school, and I can still remember them walking toward the pre-school door, lunch boxes in hand. I love and hate September for exactly the same reasons, the return to routine, to work, to school.

Motherhood requires a continual letting go, trusting children to find their place in a world that isn’t always welcoming. I’ve learned to text-message, and because of this, I can hear from my children during the school day. Even with those annoying little letters I can barely see on my phone, I type my short answers: good, okay, home. Technology is on our side, allowing communication to continue throughout the day with very little effort. It takes the sting away of seeing them walk away and not look back.

That first day of school is difficult. I attempt to adjust to the quiet of the house. Eventually, I find my way back to my desk, to my world, and do what I can to put words on a page. My sister generally calls to find out how I’m doing. Her boys are older and she’s past this point of her life. She understands.

At pre-school and kindergarten doors there will be mothers crying, equally happy and sad, feeling this bittersweet New Year for the first time. As your child walks away and those first drawn pictures arrive with sunny skies and rainbows, know that you have done well, and can start a new adventure of your own. Good luck and happy New Year!

There is nothing worse than watching young people grieve. I don’t think you need to be a mother to want to wrap your arms around a child who is suffering, and extract the pain. You’d do anything to restore the innocence, wipe away the sadness, expedite the healing.
Grief is something you do battle with. It’s like being caught in a wave. There are times you breathe freely, and times when you’re tossed under. It colors your tastes and changes your concept of time. It turns you inside out. But it also sensitizes you to heartbreak, and introduces you to compassion. It directs you to accept the helping hand you’re being offered, and reminds you that you matter to more people than you thought. If there is light so faint as to come through a door crack, you must try and reach it.
I have conversations with young people who have endured the loss of a parent. I stumble over my words and never know how much or how little to say. I look into their eyes and feel their nervousness, but notice they always make eye contact as if they need it. I wish they could simply absorb love from all the people who want to give it, friends, family, and specifically other parents. There are arms to fall into, hearts wide-open, and most importantly, ears to listen. It’s not easy to recover from such a loss. They shouldn’t have to do it alone.

Motherhood and Writing

Motherhood changed my writing life. I have gone from needing church silence to being able to write in my living room where my husband and son are loudly interacting with televised sports, or my daughter is playing piano. I’ve learned to ignore even the dog when he is in rabbit-mode, ears back and running through the rooms, then freezing into a John Bellushi-Animal House stance. I think this was a gradual evolution. I used to retreat to a corner in the attic when the children were toddlers and I convinced myself my emotional distance could be increased through stairs. I wrote several books up there, and only came down to work when my laser printer gave up the ghost, and my husband bought me a laptop.

Now, I am happiest writing near a window with a coffee pot close, and passersby in view. I like watching the UPS trucks come and go, the neighborhood dogs sniffing my dandelions, the gaggle of youngsters making its way down the block to the local theater from one of our neighborhood schools. I like being reminded of the reality beyond my keyboard even as I choose to ignore it. This attentiveness I attribute to motherhood.

At college, I remember causing several food explosions when I would try to cook and write simultaneously. I would park my blue, Brother electric typewriter on our dinette table overlooking the duck pond at our off-campus apartment, and settle in to work. Neither the rhythm of the machine nor the return bell distracted the voice in my head as it spilled onto the page. Unremarkably, I managed to work up an appetite moving only my fingers. I had staples on hand, eggs, bread, hot dogs, and M&Ms. I was always low-carbing then (except for the chocolate) so I stayed away from the bread, and would boil either hot dogs or eggs. It wasn’t so bad when hot dogs exploded. They quietly burst apart leaving pink shreds pretty close to the stove, and were greasy enough to be easily washed away. But when the browned and crusty hard boiled eggs blew, they released the worst of all stinks, and my roommates would be justifiably offended. They could never understand how I could lose track of time so completely.

Boiling eggs do warn you with aural cues; they rattle against each other, against the pot. I can promise you I hear them now from a room away. In fact, now I can hear through doors and walls. I can wake up running from a dead sleep and magically appear at the bathroom doorway when one of my children is sick. Motherhood sharpens your hearing, even while it allows you to tune out the most repetitive video game. You can discern the slightest inflection in your child’s after-school voice, and know lunch didn’t go well. You can take a temperature with your lips, sniff out a bad cold cut, read dejection on a ball field from yards and yards away, and feel each second pass until your child arrives home safely. Motherhood makes your senses that acute, and won’t ever allow you to leave a stove unattended.

Finding the Right Mother's Day Gift

As we approach Mother’s Day I recall the agony of trying to choose an appropriate gift for my departed mother. My mother was difficult to please, and this was never so evident as when she opened my gifts. Unlike the more Americanized mothers, mine was Italian and quick to express her feelings.
One year I bought silk flowers in a small glass vase, because I knew real ones would never be welcome. Within an hour, my father phoned my apartment to ask me how much the gift cost. The entire arrangement was twenty-five dollars, but apparently the vase was tagged three dollars; my mother had looked underneath the gift, and was immediately insulted. My father tried to convince her that I didn’t undervalue her.
I learned the hard way, cheap or expensive didn’t matter. I failed at it all. Perfume, clothes, jewelry, no matter how carefully I tried to pick out the perfect present, she would exhibit some sign of disappointment, be it the soft sigh, the forced thank you, or even the more direct “What the hell did you buy this for?” Yet for a non-event I could show up with a donut and she’d be happy for the thought. In fact, any used item was even more appreciated.
One Christmas I bought a ruby necklace, spending four times my budgeted allotment. It would be worth every penny to have my gift appreciated. Ruby was her birthstone, so I couldn’t imagine her not loving the extra care I took to pick it out. My mistake. From the moment she dangled it from her hand, I knew she hated it. I could feel my heart itself swaying back and forth with the necklace, as she rocked it in disbelief. But in case I didn’t pick up on the clue, she twisted her mouth and reminded me she had asked for a battery operated TV. Still, I didn’t admit defeat.
My mother had amassed a collection of home-recorded tapes from the food network. I stumbled upon a New York Times award-winning recipe tape. I thought for sure this was a no-brainer. I wasn’t going to give her something I thought she needed. I was going to give her something I knew she liked. Wrong again. In fact, she could not understand why I would pay money for something she could get for free off the food channel. A discussion ensued, and my father, uncle, and aunt came to my defense. I don’t think I said much that night, except to myself, vowing never again to do more than write a check, or place cash in an envelope.
That was not the last gift I gave my mother, though it was the last one I gave her while she was alive. When she died I gave the undertaker a pair of my shoes that had been in and out of high rises in New York City, places I suspected she would have enjoyed if she had been born a generation later, and given the opportunities I was lucky enough to have. Whatever she disliked about my life no longer mattered. Her negative comments about my gifts just gave me something else to hold onto, one more precious memory of her. But I’d like to think she liked the shoes. I’d like to think that one gift said it all.

Dreaming a visit

I looked at a photo of my mother yesterday, smiling, happy, sitting next to my father. It was one of those moments when I slipped into the picture, able to see what was around that day, smelling the spring flowers, hearing the conversation.

I am fortunate enough to have many dreams of my mother, and most of them are pleasant. Generally, we’re doing something very natural, having coffee at the dining room table, the seats filled by extended family, dead and alive. For the while that I am sitting there I have a deep sense of well being. It is only when I have to leave that I wake up to our separation, to the fact that we are alive differently, her on her spiritual plane, me here on earth. And I wonder if she is initiating the thoughts by sending me that vibe, or if I am manufacturing what I would like to experience.

People always question TV psychics about messages from the next world. I tend to get the same one over and over, that my mother is still around, still listening, still loving the family. She looks healthy, happy, and appreciates the visit. The only difference between the dream and my life experience is she doesn’t ask me to stay longer. I feel sorrow as we embrace, though I know I can’t stay, I have to get home to my family, my life. I am the one who has difficulty letting go.

Self Mothering

I have a lot of sympathy for Cathy in my book, for someone who loses her mother so early in her life, has no other family, and feels disconnected. I do hear from younger women who have suffered such a heartbreaking loss, and love the idea of finding a “Mary” who would be willing to help them.

In my community, services are packed when there are children still in the household and the mother of the family has died. Other mothers try to fill in with rides, meals, whatever way they can help the children. Even if those simple gestures cannot fill the void, they do help. But what do those children do on holidays, on Mother’s Day, in those quiet moments when you know everything would be all right if only you had your mother’s advice? And what if you don’t have a community to wrap its arms around you?

I suspect you carry along the mother you’ve known and eventually become the mother you need for yourself and your children. You learn how to nurture yourself in those situations where you don’t have a lot of emotional support. You look to other role models, male or female, to other sources of comfort. You watch, listen, and learn.

I’m not sure we ever get one hundred percent of what we need from one person in any relationship. And I think as much as we love our own mothers, we’ve all had experiences where others have filled the role of nurturer--the aunt who takes us to the theater, the cousin who teaches us how to drive, the girlfriend who invites us to a family picnic. Every person, every generous heart has something to offer.

Other People's Mothers

The grass always seemed greener when TV mothers came down the stairs in starched dresses, managed to have a spotless home, polite children, and a suited husband who smoked a pipe in a den furnished with a mahogany desk and floor to ceiling bookshelves. I loved the fantasy of a quiet, dignified family life, even though I knew it was a fantasy.

I grew up with yelling in two languages, banging and begging on the only bathroom door, even on rare occasions, when it was only my immediate family of six taking turns with the claw-footed bathtub. The kitchen wall phone delivered good and bad news throughout the day, televisions blared from several locations, and my mother was always on duty in a snapped smock apron and a percolator that predictably overflowed on the stove, feeding and housing the visiting masses.

It was from other people’s mothers that I learned how to be an American, because even though my mother was born here, she lived her life as an Italian wife and mother. When I was young I noticed mothers who could drive, who worked in offices or stores, even some who had gone to college. I’ve had a remarkable progression of mature women in my life who have offered advice freely.

There was a woman I shared a workspace with at college who had raised boys, whose stories were always infused with humor, and who always had a wonderful disposition. Another mother I worked with whose husband committed suicide, passed on life-lessons of kindness, which she attributed to her own mother. In my hometown I loved talking to a mother of ten who spoke about the importance of listening to children, organizing Christmas, and taking time for oneself.

Motherhood is a full time job, but we don’t have our children all day. I think there are some incredible mothers out there, and if you’re lucky, you end up working beside them, on line behind them, or maybe even in their cars. I know my children are occasionally treated to one who will see something in them my family has taken for granted, and it boosts their self esteem.

I’d love to become one of the “other people’s mothers” who says the right word of encouragement or leads by example, or keeps the football team from stuffing the extra boy in the trunk by driving them to practice. I’m very grateful to the other mothers I’ve learned from and especially to those who have my back now.

My mother's face

My mother was not Mary in my book MOTHER. She was not one of the church ladies, or even Cathy. She did not really socialize beyond our large Italian family. She rarely left her kitchen where she kept a bottomless pot of coffee on the stove, and fed everyone who stopped by. She was an energetic woman who could crochet, knit, sew, and cook, but she lived the life of an Italian daughter and wife, and dreamt of a sit-down job working for the phone company. She encouraged marriage and children, always fearing for my safety when I worked in New York City.

I had a few false starts in my life, one of which led me to work in a convenience store to make extra money while I was producing a local cable show. The cable show ended but I kept the other job, stocking milk and doing the six-to-twelve shift so I could squeeze in some writing time. My mother visited my furnished apartment which was “too dark” for her taste, and insisted my father wallpaper the kitchen as soon as possible. I think she thought I was sad, because she kept giving me her plants whenever I visited her. Finally, one day I received a phone call from her wanting to know why I didn’t go back to New York City and get a real job and work on my writing at night. I knew I must have seemed pretty pathetic for my mother to even suggest my going to the city. But she had seen energy in me when I worked over there, and even if it made her sick with fear, that was where she thought I belonged.

NY buses didn’t come and go frequently from where I was living, so I drove to my parents’ house to catch one. It was the dead of winter, and the temperature was in the twenties with a brisk wind. I was standing on the corner across the street from my parents’ house watching my mother watching me from behind a curtain. As the minutes passed and I grew colder I longed to get back in my car and head home. I had been as sad, tired, and discouraged as she imagined. I had given up and I was okay with that. But there was my mother’s face, and behind that face the hope that I would just get on that bus, take a step, claim some amount of happiness. And when I’m close to feeling defeated I picture her face peering behind that curtain and know I can’t give up, I still can’t disappoint her.

Welcome

I am so pleased to welcome you to the Mother blog. I lost my mother to emphysema, some seven years after her doctors told us she had six months to live. I admired her determination to prove the doctors wrong, but it was difficult being constantly on alert, never knowing when her life would be over. She didn’t want to die alone, so my family eventually kept a four day vigil, because even when the doctors told us she wouldn’t make it through the night, she lived a few more days. We sometimes had as many as twelve people at her bedside, and took shifts throughout the nights. She passed away in the company of five family members, but I wasn’t there at that time.

Shortly after her funeral I learned I was pregnant with my son. I truly consider that pregnancy a gift from God, because it allowed me to focus on the life growing within me. The first year was difficult. The grief would be triggered by something as innocuous as the smell of flowers as I passed shops on the sidewalk, a song playing on the radio, an article of clothing that reminded me of her. Suddenly, I’d be crying. I didn’t know what to do with the feelings. I wanted to speed it along the way I would when I had a break-up with a boyfriend. But it wasn’t as simple as cutting my hair, cleaning out a closet, or distracting myself with upbeat music. Perhaps, as much as I hated feeling the loss, I really didn’t want to let go of the pain.

I don’t think I really understood grief until I lost my mother. A lot of what I went through is in this book, the crying in the night, the lack of energy, the feelings of loss that come through both Mary and Cathy. I was especially touched by the kindness and compassion of strangers I met along the way, and found that this experience was not unique to me. I thought that was worthy of writing about. I hope you’ll agree. Please write me about your mothers, and the people who have touched you with their kindness.

Linda

Read Mother by Linda Ann Rentschler

Every once in a while we find an author who has the rare ability to tap directly into our fears, emotions and ultimate strengths. Linda Ann Rentschler, the author of Jitters, a novel of premarital stress that was made into a Lifetime® original movie, is one of these gifted writers. And her latest novel is nothing short of spectacular.A faded photo…a treasured heirloom…a remembered recipe—it doesn’t take much to make Mary Sullivan dissolve into tears over the loss of her mother, even though it’s been five years since her death. Mary fills the aching void in her heart by caring for her teenage boys, Matthew and Brian, and her loving husband Ted who, although supportive during her initial bereavement, is finding it hard to understand why she hasn’t moved on. When Mary shares a tender memory with Cathy, a young waitress she meets at the local luncheonette, how could she know the encounter would soon change her life? For the sudden, tragic death of Cathy’s mother provides the now equally bereft pair with a common bond that deepens into friendship—and gives rise to hope as they begin to search for a way to talk to their moms…just one more time. What Mary and Cathy discover reveals a connection to this world and the next neither ever imagined possible.