One Proud Mama

  

 Proud Mama and Sam

Here I am at my middle son’s graduation from Carnegie Mellon University, with a major in architecture. It’s been five challenging years for him—all-nighters, exams, designing and building incredible models. It’s been five challenging years for me, too—worrying (especially when he spent a semester in Qatar), wondering where the money was coming from (especially since we have another son in college), fretting about whether he was taking good care of himself. Suffice it to say that I am relieved and  proud. He made it!

           But is pride really such a good thing?  The real question, I realize, is would I be proud if it hadn’t turned out this way? Would I be proud of my son if he had flunked out of school, or if his grades hadn’t been as stellar as they are, or if he had messed up in any number of ways?

         And beyond that the question is, are we capable of loving without expectation? Are we, as parents, ready to give our love unconditionally, even when our kids make mistakes or disappoint us?  Are we ready to say to our kids, “We love you no matter what?” Not, I love you if you graduate from college, or if you get a high-paying job, or if you score really well on the GRE’s?   

         I know I'm fortunate to have three sons who have all done well at college. And yes, I am filled with pride (whether this is a positive thing or not) for their wonderful achievements, particularly today, as my middle son receives  his degree.

        But I’m also aware that even as we celebrate our children’s achievements, we must also celebrate the mistakes they make, the failures they meet, and the missteps they take, because with these experiences come the real learning. 

          Perhaps the true test of our love is whether we can be there for them, no matter what, on great days like graduation from college, and on every other day to come.

           

Make Your Day

Happy Mother’s Day to all! I remember when I used to depend on others to make my holidays special. Invariably, this led to some disappointments, sometimes large, sometimes small. There were birthdays when kids forgot to call me from college, anniversaries when my husband worked, Christmases when I didn’t get the present I really wanted. (When, if ever, is someone in my family going to take me seriously about that sweetly chiming Zen alarm clock?) But I’ve moved on, those days are over.

            A friend of mine not long ago told me about a friend of hers who was celebrating her birthday all week. She went out to lunch with her favorite pals, pampered herself, even threw herself a small birthday bash. I decided to try this approach on a modest scale on my own birthday. I bought myself a new aromatic soy candle and some special treats at Whole Foods, and spent the day reading. I was delighted when others remembered my birthday, but to tell you the truth, it wouldn’t have mattered too much if they’d forgotten. I was having such a good time by myself.

            This brings me around to Mother’s Day, another holiday when we expect others—especially our children—to honor us. My kids (perhaps with some prompting from my husband) have always been good about this. They’ve made me countless breakfasts in bed, painted me pictures, drawn cards, even brought me jewelry and flowers.  But to be honest, on occasion they’ve... er... stumbled. (Even on Mother's Day, it's sometimes hard for three young boys to stop teasing each other and hurling footballs through windows. And teens, who live in an alternate universe, can be rather forgetful.)

            But why put it all on the kids? I’ve decided that we, as mothers, are perfectly capable of creating our own glorious day. After all, we created and planned our kids’ days for many a year, hauling them to the park to play, taking them on fun vacations, making sure that they ate healthy foods and got plenty of rest.

            So I propose that we treat ourselves like royalty this Mother’s Day. Do, eat, think, read, be whatever you want, whether your kids are home with you or not.  I’ve already booked an early morning yoga class, and invited my eldest son (the other two are at college) over for take-out (unless he wants to cook). A lovely afternoon of gardening would be nice, too, but if it rains I’ll simply finish a novel.

            Long ago, my first yoga teacher told me that we create our days, that through our thoughts, words, and deeds we design our own reality. At the time, I thought she was a little "out there." But I’ve come to believe that she was right. We are in charge of our own happiness, and barring tornadoes, wars and the like, I believe that it’s up to us to make or break our day.

            This Mother’s Day I plan to honor myself and my children….and even if one forgets to call, or another burns dinner—I intend to have fun!  Moms, I hope you’ll join me. Hug your kids and enjoy the extraordinary gift of their existence, but to tweak a line from Clint Eastwood, “Go ahead, make your own day! “

           

Mother Knows Best

This is the last entry from my book, "All About Motherhood, A Mom for All Seasons and Other Essays" (www.iUniverse.com).  Next week, back to blogging. Above, Grandma Virginia and Ben, circa 1991. Even though you're no longer "with" us,  I still hear you, Mom. 

Everything I ever needed to know about child-rearing, I probably could have learned from my mother.  Neither scientists nor childcare experts taught me about the healing power of a mother's touch, and before I ever read a baby manual my mother alerted me to the value of patience.  I didn't need a pediatrician or the Surgeon General to convince me that breast was best; my mother's encouragement said it all.

          Even though times change and practical advice is updated, certain maternal truths seem only to ripen: they dangle but never really fall from our tree of knowledge.  What contemporary law of nature decrees that a new mother  has to pave her own way without the aid of older, outmoded moms?  How often must we hear the phrase, "Listen to your mother!" before we pay attention?

          My mother, who doesn't travel well or often, made the three-hour trip to Manhattan to visit me in the hospital when I had my first baby. Naturally, she wanted to see her grandson, but I believe it was her loyalty to me that made her fight traffic and her own fear of the unfamiliar.  When I heard her voice outside my hospital room I wept with sheer relief; nothing could have brought more comfort and solace than my mother's reassurance in those early days with my newborn.

          When I had my second child, my father was very ill.  My mother, who cared for him, couldn't make it to my home until the baby was more than a week old.  Then one morning she simply appeared on my doorstep. "It's just something she had to do," my father explained when I called to tell him she'd arrived safely, "She just wouldn't rest until she'd seen that baby."  When I gave birth again, five years after my father's death, my mother, of course, came to be with us.

          Whenever I wasn't holding or nursing my newborn babies, my mother rocked them.  If a visitor put my baby into the crib, my mother swiftly gathered her grandson up in her arms.  I never needed to ask my mother, "Do you think I should pick him up?"  She was already reaching for the baby, holding him out to me, reinforcing my instinctual desire to nurture him.  The concept of spoiling a baby? Unheard of by my mother.

          At times, my mother offers practical advice, but her words float gently, like harmless bits of goose down.  She's given me useful nuggets for rainy days and summers: "Let them eat on the picnic table outside" or "Pack them a lunch as if you're going to the woods."  Prepare a schedule for the day, she advises, plan activities in writing and enlist the children's help. Take a paper bag and go for a walk, collecting leaves, rocks, feathers.  These are the same tactics she used with her own three children years ago; time hasn't altered their value one bit.

          When one of my children is sick, my mother never hesitates to say, "Call the doctor!" and though I haven't always followed her suggestion immediately, nine out of ten times a doctor, indeed, was required.  But most important is my mother's example: she never spanked or struck any of her children, and her words of discipline were always measured with a gentle tone. Throughout her life, my mother has believed that children deserve respect, care, and patience; her larder of harsh words and penalties has always been empty.  To calm a crying child, to punish a naughty one, to assuage a child's anger, my mother uses the same method: scoop the child into your arms, hold him, sing to him, and love him.

          The world is full of new ways, uncharted paths, new techniques and discoveries, but that doesn't mean our mothers' advice is stale or unworthy.  Some find it fashionable to criticize their mothers.  Others must reject the past in order to forge the future, and sometimes, when I'm tired or feeling fiercely independent, I'd very well like to tell my mother to keep her thoughts to herself.  She had her chance to raise children; now it's my turn.

          But deep down, I know that our mothers' advice isn't an obstacle to our progress; rather, it's a stepping-stone we all need to get to where we're going.  Whenever I really listen to my heart, I hear my mother's voice, and I know that despite the passage of time, her words will always ring right and true.

A Mom For All Seasons

Reprinted from "All About Motherhood: A Mom for All Seasons and Other Essays" available at www.iUniverse.com or your favorite online bookstore. Happy Passover, Easter, and Spring to all!

Motherhood isn’t a seasonal thing: it blooms all year.  But the state of being a mother has its seasonal aspects, and the seasons do affect mommies in certain fairly predictable ways, just as we know that the lilacs will blossom in April, and the oak leaves will drop in the fall.

            When I was a newlywed girl (i.e., without children), autumn meant virtually nothing, other than a few snappy new office outfits and a couple of crunchy apples I might pick up in a Manhattan fruit stand.  Winter meant driving in snow, and spring and summer sure looked nice from my office window, but other than on my two-week vacation, I didn’t really experience the seasons in any palpable manner.

            Motherhood changed all that, and suddenly the seasons took on a new, absorbing power.  Summer, for instance, is now everything in a way that it never was before kids.  The sounds of children splashing in water, the movement of small bodies chasing fireflies across the yard, the whirring of cicadas mixed with the crashing of screen doors, and the excited voices of kids helping (and hindering) as we pack for vacation hold new and incomparable places in my heart and memory.  Just simply the question of what to do with kids in the summer lends a vibrancy and urgency hitherto unknown.

            At the end of August, what mother doesn’t feel the finale of summer and the excitement of “back to school” in the very fiber of her bones?   Suddenly, mothers everywhere are talking about backpacks and jeans, sneakers and jumpers, and where to get the best buy on notebooks.  Autumn means getting back into a regular routine; coaxing kids out of bed earlier, darker nights, homework and soccer. Apple picking trips, bright, crisp Saturdays searching for pumpkin patches, Halloween costumes, taking up the trumpet again or the piano; fingers stretching over the keys, hesitant blasts into the cool air.  Autumn with kids is filled with new experiences.  While traditionally leaves fall, greenery fades (okay, let’s be up front about it, things die), kids trot off to school in brand-new clothes, ready to learn all new things in a new class with a new teacher.  What mother doesn’t shiver with the sheer novelty and thrill of it all?

            Then comes winter, a season I used to dread. But hey, here we have the holidays—the lights, presents, pageants, songs, and all the festivities that suddenly take on a new brilliance because they involve our children. Snow isn’t just a clogged road anymore: it’s a snow day, a chance to sled down our hill with the dog chasing at our heels, it’s a reason to go outside and actually frolic! (something I certainly never did in weather below sixty degrees before children).  Suddenly, even winter has its highlights; the crunching sound of boots in the snow, the early nights to bed, the warm baths and soft quilts, the little tongues stretching out to taste a snowflake even though we warn against it!  With kids, winter’s a whole ‘nother ball game.

            Next comes spring. At last, they can ride their bikes after dinner, they can haul out their rollerblades and skates, plant some marigold seeds, hit some homers.  But spring isn’t just the good stuff. For a mom, it’s also the time of dirty, muddy sneakers tracking into the house, the time when it’s absolutely fruitlessly impossible to keep the floors clean, the time when the kids are so wired and hyped by the change in the temperature and the impending end of the school year that they don’t want to finish their homework, and they may be impudent and foul-mouthed.  It’s a time of rain, and general agitation mixed with the relief that spring always brings.

            Then, it’s over, and we begin again.  Naturally, this all goes more swiftly than we imagined, and we can hardly believe it’s summer already, or that summer is ending, or that winter is here. But that’s just the nature of it all, and the nature of motherhood, too.  We can’t believe that our baby is now two, or six. Or…17.

            And then there’s the fact that motherhood has its own inherent seasons; the newborn phase when everything is fresh and wonderful (spring), the autumn (toddler) phase when we’re getting a little annoyed now and then, the winter phase (with older children) when we’re feeling fed up and can’t remember why we ever had kids in the first place, and then the summer when we’ve really matured and grown into our roles, when we just take a deep breath and realize how incredibly, wonderfully lucky we are.

            Yes, the seasons mean more to mothers than perhaps to anyone else.  They not only mark the passing of time and the growth of our children, but they reflect our own growth as women who are mothers. And somehow, when we become mothers, the smell of a dark autumn night, or the sound of a child giggling across the smooth, summer water of a lake, or the sigh of a baby we rock in a sleepy, spring breeze just takes on an entirely different meaning. We’re mothers now, and the seasons have a significance we never before could have known or fathomed.

The Importance of Doing Nothing

Note: In honor of upcoming Mother's Day, I'm devoting the next couple of posts to excerpts from my book, "All About Motherhood: A Mom for All Seasons and Other Essays," available at http://www.iuniverse.com or your favorite online bookstore. Above, Ben on his 20th birthday and myself, still happily doing nothing together though he is indeed a very busy college student now.

If you’re a parent, you’ve certainly read those Richard Scarry books about all those busy people in Busy Town. You know, Lowly Worm, Bananas Gorilla, Huckle Cat and so forth, all running around in circles?  Sometimes, as I’m driving my kids to school in all the morning hustle and hysteria, I think of those books. Yes, these are busy times, and we’re all very busy people.

            These days, it’s fashionable to be busy; it’s not chic to spend the morning doing the same pig puzzle 100 times.  Busy is cool, but frantically busy, absolutely crazed by things to do, is even better, whether you have a “real” job or not.  Surely, all this busyness must be good. Yet something tells me we’re afraid to be unoccupied; we’re just a tad nervous about having time on our hands.  Clearly, idleness doesn’t fit in the computer age.  We don’t want to appear to be too mellow or too lazy; busyness indicates importance and success.  In the sixties, sitting around in a stupor gazing at flowers was perfectly acceptable behavior, but in the new millennium one must be on the go or eyebrows will arch.  Slowness is for slugs.

            So I’ll admit this in a whisper, as if it’s some kind of sin: Recently, my youngest son and I spent an entire morning doing nothing.  On this particular morning, I didn’t make any trips to the grocery store; I didn’t run down to put in laundry or down again to throw clothes in the dryer; I didn’t do any writing, networking or phone-calling; I didn’t make soup or clean the bathroom; I didn’t even wash the breakfast dishes until afternoon.  I did, I’ll confess, make a pot of coffee, but after that I spent the whole morning with my four-year-old, Ben.  We traced our hands and painted pictures; we dragged out all the puzzles we haven’t mastered in months and did each five times; we read books and listened to tapes, we played indoor “hide and seek.” In short, we “hung out.”  We didn’t do much of anything; we just…were.  Yes, we even watched the flowers growing.

            Not once did Ben appear to be bored. Never did he say, “Mom, when do you take me to preschool?” or “Can’t we go play with some kids in the park now?”  He was thrilled, it seemed, to possess my full, undivided attention, to feel that he was not just a distraction that keeps me from more important grown-up pursuits like scrubbing all the floors or making money.  And surprisingly, halfway into the morning, I realized that I was really enjoying this “free” time, too.

            Usually, when I call friends or colleagues, whether they’re parents or not, I get essentially the same answer when I ask, “What have you been doing?”

           “Oh, I’ve been really busy,” is the common response.  Or, “Things have been really hectic.”  Then I get a breathless, longwinded rundown of what the person has been up to: shopping, preparing for birthdays or holidays, taking courses, car pooling, volunteering, meeting deadlines, running the school candy sale, and so on, ad infinitum.  One friend of mine, who always calls me on her cell while on the L.A. Expressway driving home from work, is perpetually “just wrapping up a deal.”  Another, a teacher and mother, is always running from school to church to library meetings.  Sometimes (when she’s forced by laryngitis) she takes a day off.  Usually, however, she pushes herself to the outer limit before she’ll ever take a moment’s rest.

            Perhaps I’m a dreamer.  Okay, I am a dreamer, but I’d like to think that maybe in the future, we’ll learn how to slow down.  I’m not talking about old age here, either.  I’d like to think that even in the days of electronic mail, the Internet, two-income families, and the fax, there still will be times when I might call a friend and ask, “What are you doing?” and he or she would say without remorse, “Absolutely nothing.” Or even better, “I’m just finishing up a morning of building blocks with my two-year-old.”  Just once, I’d like to get a call from my West Coast friend when she’s sitting on her deck, leisurely sipping an iced tea and polishing her toenails, without the roaring backdrop of traffic.  “What are you doing?” I ask.  In my fantasy, she answers, “Zilch.”

            So maybe I’m foolish to admit this, but I’m really not that busy.  Yes, I do have three boys, and each has umpteen activities to be carted to, I do have housework and laundry and writing.  But when Ben looks at me and says, “Mom, help me do this puzzle,” I’m going to drop everything for a moment.

           I’ll be very busy, you see, doing nothing—nothing, that is, in the grown-up sense of the word.

            After all, one day Ben’s going to be too busy for me.  I don’t want to wonder, when that day comes, why I was always so hurried and preoccupied. So at the risk of sounding as if I’m lazy, I propose we all do nothing together with our children…while there’s still time.

Virginia's Oatmeal Cookies

When I was a child growing up in Schenectady, New York, I lived a completely different life, in many ways, than the one I live now. For one thing, there were no computers, cell phones, or  ipods (imagine playing with paper dolls and marbles!).  There were no fax machines or  DVDs. There were no CDs and no GPS’s. But even worse, in my opinion, there were no bagels. There was no hummus, no tabouli, and no baba ganoush. There was no pita, no naan. Computers I could live without today, but I don’t think I could survive without the possibility of pad thai or tom yum soup. Or tofu with black bean sauce.

            But back in the day, I survived on such staples as white bread (OMG), fish sticks (eeuw!), pot roast, cube steak, mashed potatoes, iceberg lettuce, and frozen peas (or, in the summer months, fresh peas from my uncle’s garden). The only “unusual” foods my mom ever served were “Spanish rice” (which consisted of white  “minute” rice, hamburger and tomatoes) and pizza.  Spices used were salt, salt, salt, pepper, and a dash of paprika or nutmeg. Now, don’t get me wrong. My mother was not a bad cook—in fact everything she made (with the exception of her coffee) tasted very good indeed. But my parents’ appetites were unadventurous (in fact, when she did make Spanish rice, my father refused to eat it, preferring instead to make his own concoction of milk, crumbled up crackers and shredded left-over bits of beef served in a cereal bowl). EGAD.

            I’m thrilled to be living in 2011 in the Metropolitan New York area: So many restaurants, so little time. I feel blessed to be able to get miso soup whenever I want, baklava or spanakopita, pasta fagioli or pesto, foods my parents never got to know very well (in their later years, I did try to introduce a few of them). And I’m also happy that, though I’ve tried to emulate my mother’s goodness and kindness as much as possible in my own life, I’ve not followed in her cooking footsteps. I am happy to serve my children chicken Marsala or pasta puttanesca, and I love experimenting with vegetarian dishes of all kinds (the more ginger, turmeric or curry the better).

            But I will say this: My mother made the best apple pie I’ve ever tasted, and her oatmeal cookies were out of this world. They weren’t too sweet, and with a glass of milk they were pure heaven. I’m reprinting her recipe here (with a slight adjustment: I use half whole wheat flour and half white, and all organic ingredients). I served these at a recent gathering and my friends couldn’t eat enough of them!

            Enjoy!

           

Virginia’s Oatmeal Cookies

Mix together:

2 cups brown sugar

1 cup melted butter

2 eggs

1 tsp baking soda dissolved in 1/3 cup hot water

2 cups oatmeal

2 cups flour (1 cup or more whole wheat, the rest white)

1 tsp cinnamon

drop onto cookie sheet and bake at 350 for 10 to 12 minutes

Passing the Torch

Recently, I dropped my best friend’s kid off at Julliard (yes, the Julliard) for an interview  (I live near Manhattan, and it was “no big whoop” to get him there). Without going into details or divulging the secrets of his life, let’s just say that a few weeks later I learned that he was accepted! In the back of my mind, I have a vision of this “child” in his bassinet at the age of less than one week. I also remember giving his parents a collection of Beethoven records when they married; guess those notes seeped in.

A few days after that, I hired a young man to replace our leaking roof. It just so happened that this 22-year-old “kid” and his l9-year-old brother had pretty much grown up in my home. For years they were my own sons’ close friends: I used to help them with their homework after school, feed them popcorn, and watch them play softball. Now these “youngsters” were up on my roof, hammering nails and risking their lives.

Another child—a friend of my son’s—is in banking. He handles my money (or lack thereof).  Another kid—a young lady--is about to join the Peace Corps. Two more are heading off to grad school to study chemistry and math,  two subjects that I would flunk at the seventh-grade level were I to tackle them now.  My own son, about to graduate from college next month, will one day soon be designing real buildings instead of constructing Lego or Lincoln-Log homes.

            It’s kind of weird to watch your friends’ kids age. Most parents realize that their own children are going to grow up, even though we sometimes don’t really like to think about it. Still, we know that our job is to raise our children to become adults. That’s what we’re here for.

            But what about those other kids, the kids we watched line up for nursery school, perform in the Spring musical, or dribble balls on the Rec Center basketball court? We don’t ever really imagine them as grown-up men, or women.

            Until, one day, they are fixing our roofs, managing our finances, or composing the music for films that won’t be produced until we’re in our sixties…or beyond.

            I suppose this could depress me, but for some reason it makes me feel happy, hopeful and proud. Yes, I still have some dreams that I’m chasing and I don’t intend to give them up. But I’m also okay with the fact that a new generation is ready to step up to the plate. And whether they are hammering nails, writing operas, trading stocks, or anything else, I know they will do well. No, better than well. They will be magnificent!

            After all, I know their parents.  And, I trust that all those “kids” we nurtured and loved are ready to carry the torch.