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.
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2 comments:
Of course, there were times I wanted my mother to somehow be different. As a kid I didn't even know how to articulate what I wanted her to change. "Don't be always reading! Don't wear tennis clothes everywhere! Just be different!" She was her own person and to hell with anyone who didn't like that. She knew life was hard and the ability to laugh at yourself was pretty good armor. She hated those canned Christmas letters in which everything was perfect. She always planned to send one that announced my father' trial for money-laundering, my brother's sex-change operation, and my recent arrest for drunk driving. Toward the end of her life, as she waited for esophageal cancer to take its toll, she came to me with a draft of her own obituary. She and I howled with laughter as she read: "Jean Whittingham, beleaguered wife of Chuck; indifferent mother of Beth, Charles, Philip, and Leigh; distant sister to Nancy...." She was none of those those things. She was one-of-a-kind and wonderful.
Our mothers were wise enough not to always be politically correct, and to keep that humor handy, even at the end.
My mother always threatened to come back and pull our feet as we slept, if she didn't like the behavior she saw from the afterlife. She was a fine motivator.
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