Mothering

Mothering, what does it mean mothering? 

To be a mother is the most important unselfish act a woman can do.  It is the most terrifying, fear ridden, heart stopping, nail biting, demanding, sleepless journey.  It is the most absorbing, life-altering, soul searching, moving, love fest ever.


I am in transition.  Like in giving birth I feel I am in transition.  I thought when I gave birth that stage was unyeilding and overwhelming but now in my fifties this transition seems to put me in that state of confusion and fear of going forward.  I can't stop going forward to my next stage of being a woman, I have to go with confidence knowing that on the other side of this step will be a calm or an acceptance of my new stage in life.  The contractions of my mothering now is to allow myself to let my grown children be.  To understand that they are no longer in need of my protection like when they were children.  They need to make the mistakes that I tried to shield them from because I knew what the outcome would be.  No, now I must watch their highs in life and their lows.  I must be constant and supportive.  I must learn to hold my tongue yet hold my arms open and let them discover their own journey in life.  If I fight this, I can feel the beat in my heart thump faster and fear sets in.  The mother warning lights begin to flash.  My arms, my wings want to gather and hold them though I know this to be unwise.  Did I not teach my children while young, of life?  Did I not share daily as we played, read, lived what to understand of life they might encounter?  Hold my hand while we cross the street, careful how high you climb because you will need to climb down without falling but I am here to catch you if you do fall, knives are sharp and scissors are too. 

In giving birth to my babies, that stage of transition was what appeared to be an insurmountable wave that kept getting higher and higher.  Each contraction brought more instability and undermined my true faith in giving birth.   Just when I felt I couldn't go on, that I couldn't let my body do what it knew how to because I thought it was too hard, too painful, it was "too" everything, the shift came.  The calm of being at last over the wave, into the calm, brought back to the shore.  The next wave I knew I could handle because my babes tiny sphere of their crowning heads came to view and played with my heartstrings as they would appear and disappear, each contraction more closer to my arms, to my sense of smell and taste.  With a whoosh their emergence to welcome cries and a swift flow to my open arms.  That first kiss sealed our bond.  While their umbilical cord was cut and ceased to nourish them, my breasts inside called out for my mother's milk to flow.  That cry of a babe to begin the let down reflex, the tingle in my breasts,  where we once again were held together, no longer in utero, but our skin touching linking us forever.  I became the mother I was born to be.  As in love and fiercely protective as one could be.


Yet I had to let go of the babes.  I had to let them test their wings though it was hard.  My invisible hand and arm stretched out to hold on but I couldn't let them see that I wanted so much to hold them.  I wanted to sing my lullabies and rock them to and fro, the rhythm of the rocker that would became the beat of our hearts.  I had to let go with a smile and trusting knowledge that they could and would handle whatever obstacle that came to them.  My Love and I sometimes held each other with tears trickling down from our eyes to fall on our bed, the bed they were conceived upon, as we soothed ourselves knowing that those years of parenting were a gift that was of unimaginable measure.  Whatever would be, we all would ride the swells of waves in storm and calm.  


Now I am facing the ascension of age.  I find myself confused at times in observation of my relationship with my mother.  The woman who now openly talks of loving me in her limited way.  The woman who did not do this with conviction or my comprehension of feeling this.  I find myself mothering her.  How can this be?  It happens so naturally to do.  As though automatically my inner mothering emotion to care comes forth.  To be calming, gentle, loving to this failing woman, my mom.  The rise of fear to know that I am not on the threshold of youth but on the threshold of elderhood does not escape me.  I am not willing to step over yet to see the possibility of my being like my mother.  I do not want this.   And so I am thrust with transitional trepidation.  I fear to see her die, I fear to see the continuing progression of aging though I know I should not be.  It is all a part of that circle of life.  I cannot stop this circle but only ride it like the pangs of labor.  Not to always think of the difficult times but think of the blithesome times.  Perhaps not to even try to define this time but let it be.


My children, my darling children whom I adore, treasure, I only ask your patience to me while I take baby steps right now.  I am in no hurry as I was to see you learn to roll over, sit up, to walk then run.  I am in no hurry whatsoever.  Let me take my time and breathe in the wonders I let escape my view before.  Let me run my fingers, slowly over the petals of a rose, so soft like the feel of your baby skin so long ago.  Let me linger over a walk in the woods, to inhale the denseness of the wood there.  Watch the way the light falls between the limbs and leaves, to see the shadow play.  It is only now that I at last see such beauty with it's purity.  Before I would watch and listen as you each would run over the padded forest floor and hear your voices echo off the trees.  Now let me be.  Share this time with me.  All I ask is for you to hold my hand, let me feel your presence beside me, let me grow up because I am still doing this just as you are.  

Let me birth this woman inside me.

The Bon Bon Club 1985 to 1987 ~ part 2

       How can I describe the comradery  the women of this neighborhood had?  Our neighborhood was a throw back to life on a "Ozzie and Harriet" or "Leave it to Beaver" sitcom.  I fell into welcoming arms of women, like me,  these stay at home moms, with two plus kids in our postage stamp size homes and yards.

     Within days of settling in our home our two daughters had friends.  Girl friends, boy friends, friends younger and friends older, they all played together.  The street was their street and we were outnumbered multiple times by all the children in that neighborhood.  The first day of school soon would start and my daughter K. would have friends in Kindergarten.  Every child on the street talked with the adults as though we were just an extension of children their own age.  This was the first time that I was referred to as Mrs. F. and I have to say it made me feel a bit old, as well as it sounded odd and yet was very respectful.

      This was a neighborhood where we could leave our doors unlocked during the day without any concern.  Open to children who knocked on your door or called out through the screen door "Can K. and E. play?".   Little Aja and Praire, who lived two doors down didn't even bother to knock, they just walked in to see what we were up to.  That day they walked into my bathroom while E. and I bathed in the tub together (much easier to bath a two year old together when your pregnant instead of leaning over a tub with a big belly) where I was surprised and shocked but they didn't skip a beat of chatting away to me.  I thought in the future I might lock the bathroom door when I am in there instead of being caught off guard.


     The day our daughter M. was born was a school day and I managed to give birth before school was let out.  The Indian summer day was so hot our french doors were wide open in an attempt to cool me down.  I am sure amongst my new found friends that they were able to keep up with my labor progress by all the sounds I was making that drifted outside.  By the time the kids had walked down the street past our house and begun playing outside, our new family of five was getting to know our new daughter with glasses of wine, apple juice, and cheese and crackers.

     With any neighborhood the children came up with their own stories of who lives in what house.   Next door to us lived a widow who very rarely came outside.  Even I began to wonder about her via the stories the kids would tell.  She seemed to be in the "scary house" on our street even though the house was tidy and neat.   The week after M. was born a lovely baby gift came and I met this very sweet lady for the first time.  Thereafter my girls never thought of her in any other way but a sweet old lady and would wave to her and smile.

    On the other side of our house lived a family with one teenage daughter.  They kept to themselves with their windows always covered.  I am in question of homes with windows covered all day and night  Reminds me a bit of "Boo Radley" in "To Kill a Mockingbird".  My Love had met them and reported back to me that the husband was a photographer.   We didn't see or hear from them much but the wife had plastic surgery on her nose and she wouldn't come out till it was healed.   This seemed to go on for a long time so either she wasn't happy with the surgery or she was self conscious.  We kind of felt they were oddballs only because they didn't seem to enjoy hanging outside like the rest of us but they were harmless.  We even had their daughter babysit on occasion.


     Aja and Praire lived on the other side of the Photographer's one house up.  They went to a private school and were the smartest two girls.  They talked about such intelligent subjects and knew much more than I did.  Or maybe it was just the way they spoke. 

     Across the street lived Linda and her family.  She had three kids, Kenny being the oldest, Lisa who was K.'s age and Julie who was E.'s age.  They were a busy family with Kenney playing basketball and baseball.  I can still be reminded of hearing his basketball bouncing to this day on their driveway.  His friends would ride over on their bikes, tossing them on the lawn while they played outside.  Their children all when to the Catholic school in town while K. went to the public school nearby.   

     Around the corner lived a little boy Arin who was K.'s age.  He was a sweet little guy and had a younger sister.  His grandmother from Iran had come to live with the family and spoke not a word of English.  She insisted on making them soup that at first they refused to eat but like all good children they started to enjoy the home cooked Persian food she made and voila, life with a Grandmother they had not known became quite normal.  I know their mom was secretly delighted to have help on cooking and watching the kids as well.  

      Up the street lived a boy near Kenny's age named Ross.  He always wore shorts whether it was cold or hot.  Quite the friendly guy who often would knock on the door and ask if he could take M. for a stroll in her stroller.  We would let him as long as he stayed near our house.

     I had a girl friend Debbie, who was the opposite direction down our street who had been neighbors with us years before.  I was really excited to be near her again though she seemed to have moved on with a different group of friends, and while she was nice she didn't seem to want to get chummy like the other moms.  So though I did see her on occasion we never really renewed our friendship like I had hoped.  Sometimes that just happens.

     Another family with two boys lived a few homes up  from Debbie.  I had meet her through Debbie once, but saw more of her through the new girl friends I met.  Their block of kids seemed to stick more to themselves than come up our way or our kids go their way.  Kids seem to have their own set of unspoken rules and I wonder if that was one of them.

     Janice who I had met at the garage sale we had, lived on the street directly behind Linda.  They shared a gate that could be opened to go back and forth and often I wish I could live on their side of the street and have a pass through gate too.  Janice had a daughter Julia that was K.'s age and two boys Michael and Matthew who were younger.  K. and her Julia loved to play Barbies at our house and Julia seemed to really like our dogs Tess and Heidi.


    A couple of houses down from Janice lived Paula.  She had a daughter Becky who was K.'s age and twin daughter's that were older than our daughter E.   Becky had the longest, most amazing blonde hair that came easily past her tush.  I wondered how long it took to wash and dry and how hard it was to comb out.  I was wishing my hair could grow that long as my style was a longer version of Princess Diana.

     There were only five ways into our neighborhood of four streets that ran parallel with each other and four short side streets.  It wasn't a large neighborhood which is why it was ideal for families.  We were close to a shopping center that had a grocery store, a bakery, a donut shop, and beauty salon which was important for us moms.  At the end of the street there at first was a meat market that turned into a produce market that was a real treat in comparison to the grocery store.  I could take our little red wagon and go farther to the local garden center.  


     Once my busy days of taking care of a newborn, and taking E. to preschool two mornings a week, and getting K. to and from Kindergarten I was at last able to get to know the neighbor women and find that to my hearts relief, I had many I could talk to for advice and support than I had ever had before.  


     With that the beginning of the Bon Bon Club for me began.....

     

The piano

     When I was a little girl there were times when I walked inside the house after coming home from school or playing outside and I would hear the piano being played.  I could hear my Nan singing along to her simple chords of "Jesus Loves Me" while she sat at the piano in our living room.

"Yes, Jesus loves me.
Yes, Jesus loves me.
Yes Jesus loves me, 
The  Bible tells me so."

    I would come stand next to her and I think she was a bit embarrassed to be found singing.  Sometimes I would sit next to her but she usually didn't stay playing once she had an audience observing her.  She would stop and ask me about what I was doing.

     Her book of church songs would be open on the piano stand.   I would sing along with her if it was one I knew from Sunday school.  Jesus Loves Me being the one I remembered singing along to.

"Jesus loves me this I know
For the Bible tells me so.
Little ones to Him belong;
they are weak but He is strong."

    Most of the time I just listened to her softly sing her hymns.  She never preformed for us that I recall.  It seemed to be her time privately when we weren't at home that she would sit on the bench enjoying herself.   All her songs seemed to have been hymns which thinking about it now, I wonder why she didn't come to church with us.  I think she must of come every once in awhile for Easter or Christmas but otherwise she stayed home.  Maybe her piano time was her church time.  


    That piano now sits in my brother's home in his living room.  I should ask if in the piano bench are any of Nan's piano hymn books.  My mom kindly shipped it out to him many years ago when she decided a stand up piano wasn't the right look for her grand home.  She needed a shiny black baby grand even though she did not play herself.  It sits there like a fine piece of furniture dusted and well taken care of to the eye.  I doubt that it has been tuned in ages sadly as it deserves to be due to it's expense.  Occasionally one of my daughters has played on it while we visited but otherwise it sits lonely with it's white ivory keys shut tight beneath the black lid.


    The piano my Nan played had a life.  My brother took lessons and I tried to take lessons but gave up.  Sometimes I would  use some of the books my brother had or just plucked out some notes, but most of the time I played the tune "Chopsticks" along with "Heart and Soul"  with my girlfriends.   My brother's oldest son took lessons and played away on it beautifully.  It was used and isn't that what a piano should have happen?  To be played?

     In my home, we were given an old depression era baby grand by dear A. and C. before they moved to Seattle.  It's finish is worn and crackled, faded out of the black coat it had to a fine brown shade in the sunlight.  That piano has had much life in our house.  Our daughters loved banging on the keys to made up songs and then when two took lessons such lovely music came from it.  How much we enjoyed having a 'concert' given to us.  I loved to open the lid, prop it up, and have the sound come out so rich and loud when it was being played!   It needs restoration work but I cherish it because it was given to us just the way it is.  My oldest daughter sat at this piano with A. when just a little one, smiling with joy at the sound it made.  In fact A. is whom that piano is for me.  She may not live near me but the piano is a vivid memory of our times together at her home long ago.   

 


     At my parent's second home near us, they bought a player piano.  What a lot of fun that piano was!  It had all types of music scrolls that ranged from Christmas music, to old time music, to classical pieces.  I loved watching the music scroll down on songs we could sing along to as the words were right there easy to see.  Yet the best part was watching the keys play without a hand on them.  I think it felt like a ghost playing.  I don't know why my parents gave that piano away to some friends of theirs.  It sits in their family room at their vacation home in the mountains.  At least this family loves pianos and the husband plays splendidly.  In fact they have a grand piano there dominating the living room of that home  with special humidifiers to protect them from the dryness of the mountain air.  Sometimes  I want to ask them if they ever don't want it to please let me know.  I would find a place for that piano in our home just to have those good memories of singing around it as it played.  I would love to put one of the many scrolls in and listen to it. 



     A piano with a story, a song, fingers playing effortlessly, fingers, struggling to grasp the sharps and flats of a song.  Pedals for depth in a song, or the pedals hard to reach with young legs or not used at all.  I loved to push the pedal that sustained the notes.  The song "The Chimes" being a favorite song of mine to play just for that purpose, making me feel like I was in church with the echo of the lofty ceilings and high walls around me.  


  

The Piano from Ellen F. on Vimeo.