With each passing day my talents grew: I became a baker of cookies, a sewer of Halloween costumes extraor-dinaire. I could braid hair in the time most people wash their faces. And I could smile even when I didn’t want to.
Where once my body had been my own to do with as I pleased, it now belonged to someone else. It became: a breast to nourish at, a shoulder to cry on, a lap to sit and cuddle upon. My lips became the kissers of boo-boos, my hips the transporters of small, squirmy bundles. My feet were now used to walk the floor at all hours of the night, my arms became a cradle. I grew eyes in the back of my head, and my hearing became supersonic.
Once upon a time my name was Peggy. Then I became a mother and had as many aliases as a con man. I became— at various times—Mm, Ma-ma, Ma, Mommie, Mom, Mother, MOTHER! And for a brief period of mental vexation, “Peg.”
My mind, which used to flourish with egocentric thoughts, now became filled with irrational ideations: What if she falls out of the crib? What if he chokes on his food? What if I do or say the wrong thing? How will I know I’m a good parent? How will I know I’m a bad one?
My house, once so orderly and tidy became a disorderly jumble of toys and stuffed animals, dried peas and empty, strewn formula bottles; a carpet of clutter and chaos; a dwelling of disarray.
My heart, once only given to another, was now taken from me and filled to the brim, bursting with devotion and love.
I was a Mother. I was an icon. I’d done something no man had ever done, accomplished a feat so death defying and magical that many wouldn’t even attempt it. I became a Mother. And in so doing, I became all that I was, all that I ever wished to be.
Peggy Jaeger
Sibling Rivalry
When my wife, Deeptee, came home from the hospital with our second baby, she hired Meena, a live-in nurse, to come along and help out for the first few weeks. Having read up on sibling rivalry, my wife watched our eighteen-month-old daughter, Chinmya, for signs of jealousy or insecurity. But Chinmya adored her little brother from the start. She loved to help Meena feed and bathe the baby. She even offered to share her toys.
Several weeks passed and the mother of my two children, convinced that Chinmya was suffering no ill effects, decided she could manage without a nurse. As she watched Meena walk out to her car that last day, she heard an unmistakable cry of distress.
“Meena!” yelled Chinmya, running after her. “You forgot your baby!”
Deeptee and Vikrum Seth
Loving Her Best
I hold my breath as the bailiff calls out, “Hear ye, hear ye. The case of Jessica and Sarah Shouse versus their mother, Deborah, for alleged favoritism and discriminatory parenting practices.”
Behind me, the audience of mothers stirs and whispers. Across the aisle at the plaintiff’s table, Jessica and Sarah are squabbling over who gets to drink first from the single glass.
“Jessica Shouse, come forward,” the bailiff commands.
As Jessica stands, I see Sarah’s look of outrage. I know what she’s thinking: The oldest always gets to go first.
Jessica approaches the witness stand, carrying her notebook, glitter pen and a Sweet Valley High book.
“Tell us about the charges against your mother,” the judge says, her voice patient and sweet.
Jessica tactfully removes a wad of pink gum, which she places on the edge of her book.
“On January 10, she gave HER (she points at Sarah with an accusatory finger), two cookies, and I got only one. On February 2, Sarah hit me first, and I got in trouble when I hit her back. In March, Sarah sat in the front seat 118 times, while I got the front only 112 and a half times.”
“One hundred twelve and a half?” the judge asks.
“Sarah had a friend over, so she had to sit in the backseat with her. That only counts for half.” Jessica’s voice grows louder. “SHE went to summer camp while I stayed home. SHE got special watercolors, and I had to use broken crayons.”
“But you didn’t want to go to camp! You don’t even like art.” The words pour out of me. “Jessica would rather read,” I tell the judge. I turn to the audience. “I got her books instead of paints.”
Empathetic murmuring arises from the women in the courtroom, punctuated by “Shhhh,” and “Stop pinching.” The judge bangs her gavel. “Please, Ms. Shouse, restrain yourself.” Then she looks at my younger daughter.
“Sarah Shouse, will you now take the stand?”
Sarah clambers into the witness chair. The bailiff produces two phone books for her to sit on.
“What do you have to say, Sarah?” the judge asks.
“Jessica always gets to go first. She gets better clothes and more books and even though her room is messier than mine, she never, ever gets in trouble.”
I bite my lip, trying hard to contain myself. I glance behind me. “Hang in there,” one mom mouths. My hands are damp as I finally take the stand. All the mothers lean forward, straining to hear my every word.
“I have tried to be a good and fair mom. I blended my own organic baby food and bought only developmentally appropriate educational toys. I have offered my daughters coloring books, with and without lines. I have listened to them, played with them. I really did the best I could. I plead not guilty to the charges of Loving Her Best.”
The courtroom buzzes.
“Now, for my expert witnesses,” I say, my knees weak as I relinquish my seat.
My friend Jackie, a professor of literature at a local university, comes forward. “In grade school, my perfect sister made straight As while I made Cs.” She fingers her Phi Beta Kappa necklace. “If I hadn’t been so jealous of my sister, I never would have studied in high school and figured out how smart I am.”
Next, Linda, a martial arts instructor, tells how her bully of a big sister caused her to take karate. She thought she was getting even, but she ended up getting a career.
Carol, gorgeous in a flowing designer frock, describes how her sister got all the clothes. “That inspired me to open up a chain of boutiques,” Carol says.
The judge calls me over. “Are you implying that sibling rivalry has its up side?”
I nod.
“That’s a relief,” says the judge in a low tone. “My children are five and seven. Running this courtroom is a cinch compared to keeping things equal at home. . . .”
She bangs her gavel.
“Case dismissed.”
“You started it!” Jessica’s voice bangs into me, startling me out of my courtroom fantasy.
“Mom, she hit me. Plus, she’s hogging the slide.”
I open my eyes. Sarah sniffles back righteous tears as she snuggles next to me on the park bench. Only minutes ago, Jessica had patiently instructed Sarah on the art of pumping the swing. What happened?
“Let’s go home girls, “ I say wearily.
“It’s my turn to sit in the front!” Sarah proclaims.
“No, it’s mine.”
“Girls,” I make my voice stern, “come here right now.”
For a moment, they are both still. Then Jessica reaches out and takes Sarah’s hand. The sight of them, standing united, ready to stick together, fills me with a deep love. I watch them walk toward me, Sarah trying to match her sister’s stride. As they get close, I hold out my arms. There is plenty of room for both inside.
Deborah Shouse
Motherhood 101
At a recent neighborhood get-together, I was easily the oldest female there. Every other woman had young kids who were racing around, playing, laughing, occasionally generating shrill sounds that made their mothers cringe with embarrassment. One mom ordered her son to settle down, then quickly apologized. I assured her that he was just being a normal kid and that I was actually enjoying all the commotion. She didn’t buy it. I said that children grow up way too fast, and suddenly they are gone. I explained that my husband and I had an empty nest: Our “baby” is twenty-seven, our oldest is thirty-one.
She asked, and I told her a little about my job and a lot about
my four children. I shared that all four of our fledglings had tested their wings and moved to other parts of the country, that it was really hard to have them so far away, but that it made us feel good to know they were happily living in places that they had chosen for school, career or other unique opportunities. Fortunately, we manage to see all of them, plus our granddaughters, about three times a year.
I asked my neighbor how she spends her days. Almost apologetically, she stated that before she had children, she had an exciting professional career that kept her traveling all over North America, but that she was now a full-time homemaker, a “domestic engineer.” She acknowledged that some days were tiring and monotonous, but stressed that it was mostly challenging and fun. She “couldn’t imagine” not being home with her kids every day. I told her that I couldn’t think of anything more important than raising a family. She seemed relieved that I didn’t judge her negatively for being a stay-at-home mom. The truth is that I envied her immensely.
I had to fight off guilt over having had “latch-key kids.” In fact, I felt like crying. Sometimes I miss our children terribly, and I’d give anything to recapture those wasted hours I spent working late in the office or those hours I spent in class instead of being at home with them.
That night I phoned “my baby.” My voice cracked the second I heard him say hello. “Mom! What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing, honey,” I lied. “I just miss you, I guess.”
“I miss you, too, Mom,” David answered, “but something else is going on. What’s the matter?”
“I’m being silly,” I confessed. “It’s just that I saw all these young kids next door, and I wanted to tell you how sorry I am that I wasn’t there when you got home from school every day. I’m sorry that I was gone at night sometimes too, when I had classes. I’d give anything to do it all over again and spend more time with you guys.”
“Darn it, Mom. We never felt neglected! Quality of time is what counts. Some of my best memories are stuff we did together, even just sitting around talking. I can’t think of any better mom I could have had, working or not! Never feel guilty! You did exactly what you needed to do.”
Dave certainly let me have it. How glad I am that my kids feel comfortable enough to chew me out when I deserve it! I felt a million times better after we hung up. Dave’s scolding would have been enough, but he obviously called his sister. Three days later, I received a priceless gift from Alyson in the mail. It was a typed paper that read:
Just a few of the wonderful things my mom taught me . . .
Support your kids’ dreams, even if that means they
move away
Rescue baby birds and squirrels
Love hearts, Ziggy, and teddy bears
Sing aloud, dance for joy, laugh with delight, smile
big
Write
Learn to play music
Value fairness, kindness, honesty, and equality
Keep things in perspective
Surprise your kids with notes in their lunch boxes
Appreciate the simple things and know what really
matters
Believe in yourself
You can achieve anything, no matter what the
barriers
Help others less fortunate
Make pancakes in funny shapes
Grow and learn
Take family walks in the moonlight
Be sentimental
Drop everything to race outside and see a sunset
Be strong and independent
Look for the good in people and circumstances
Never feel guilty
Teach by example
Work to make a difference
Root for the underdog
Forgive
Siblings can be your best friends
Be loyal
Be silly
Take care of yourself
Be healthy
Treasure friends
Don’t give up easily on commitments you make
Stay up late at night to talk with your kids even if
you are tired
Feel lucky buying groceries
Stop to watch flocks
Cherish life—it is precious
Thank God for everything you have
Count and recount your blessings
Hug and say I love you a lot to the people you love
Put your family first
WOW! Did I teach my kids all that?
Karen L. Waldman with Alyson Powers
What I Want Most for You, My Child
My son,
You sit before me at the kitchen table laboring over your ABCs. Your five-year-old brow is puckered in concentration, your pink tongue peeks out of your mouth. As usual you are fully immersed in the moment.
Yesterday you followed a gaily colored butterfly as it flitted from bush to bush. The day before that you were beside yourself in excitement as you romped in a mud puddle.
For you, who have changed your father’s and my life in ways you couldn’t imagine, what do I want most, my child?
There are days when I want you to reach great heights and conquer the world. Cure a disease, my son, I whisper to myself; write an immortal book; cross some new frontier for humankind. Ah, but you are being pushy and selfish, says a little voice within me.
And then there are days when I merely want you to be wealthy and successful. I want you to live in mansions, drive luxury cars and have exotic vacations. But that won’t mean he’ll be happy, says that chiding voice again.
So when I sit down and think in earnest, I realize my dreams for you have little to do with fame or money or worldly success. As I write down my thoughts, prayers and wishes for you, I am in danger of getting as mushy as the last of the cereal in the bowl that you say “ugh” to. But I will go ahead anyway.
May you always have the joy in living, the sheer enjoyment in things humble and inconsequential, that you— like most small children—have now. As we grow older our shoulders sag, our eyes glaze over and we busy ourselves in things mundane and wretched. May your spirit never get jaded so that the beauty around you escapes you, that the ability to wonder, to marvel leaves you.
I wish for you the greatest gifts any person can have: good health and the love of family and friends. May the scourge of loneliness never be upon you. Find a good wife, set up house and family, and find solace there from the world and its troubles.
We live in a time beset by the winds of change: some of it exciting, some of it strange and bewildering. In this fast, ever-changing, sometimes surreal world of technology, I hope you find within yourself a sense of balance, a sense of who you are separate from the machines around you.
We like to think that the happy man is one who has everything. But maybe, my son, the truly happy person is someone who is liberated from that feeling of “want, want, want,” which gnaws at one’s soul. I know this is a tall order, but I hope you won’t end up basing your happiness upon owning every gizmo and bauble on the market.
I am confident that you will find your place in this world. As you grow older, I hope that you will discover that there are things more precious than riches: to be able to laugh with a carefree heart, to sleep with an untroubled conscience, to have the thrill of achievement coursing through your veins. Hold onto these things greedily; never let them go. May you always stand tall and true and triumphant. No one else needs to know; no one else needs to applaud.
Most of all, may your world always be the iridescent bubble it is for you now.
You came into this world, and I thought I could mold you, shape you, teach you. Little did I know that I would be taught some important lessons about life as well. You jump out of bed every morning, my angel, and the day seems to stretch out before you with magical possibilities. You have no time to ponder over yesterday’s tearful tantrum, or fret about tomorrow’s dental appointment. Isn’t there a lesson in this for me, I wonder, to celebrate the here-and-now, instead of constantly looking ov
er my shoulder at yesterday’s follies, or craning my neck toward tomorrow’s troubles?
I have knelt down beside you and tried to look out at the world through your shiny, ever-curious eyes. And I have learned that life is not a nonstop treadmill to be crammed with productive activities every minute of the day, but a colorful carousel to be savored and enjoyed with all the senses. Sometimes the laundry, the to-do list, the e-mail can wait. I’ve realized it is all right to waste a little time, to lie on your back on the grass on a spring day and look up at the white cotton-candy clouds wafting in the blue sky. It’s all right to lie on your stomach side by side with your child and look down an air vent in your kitchen and imagine the weird monsters lurking down below.
You are and will always be my most precious treasure, my biggest achievement and my proudest legacy.
Saritha Prabhu
And What Do You Do?
Being a full-time mother is one of the highest salaried jobs . . . since the payment is pure love.
Mildred B. Vermont
To me, housewife is as appealing a title as septic-tank cleaner. Mention either at a cocktail party, and suddenly no one wants to stand near you. Housewife might satisfy the IRS because it explains in one word your negative cash flow. But it doesn’t describe what I do every day, seven days a week with no sick days, holidays and at times no bathroom breaks.
In previous years, my accountant had listed my occupation on my tax return as writer. But between last year’s preterm labor (five weeks on the couch) and colic (four months wishing I could put my wailing baby down and sit on the couch), I barely had the time and energy to write a grocery list, let alone something salable. So, I gave up writing to stay home and care for my two young sons. I didn’t choose the title for the job.