I'm Done Being a Mother

I said something over Christmas break when all three of my children were at the dinner table that I’ve been wrestling with ever since.  At first, I castigated myself and considered apologizing.  Then, after some thought – the kind some people might call soul searching – I came to believe that I couldn’t really apologize for something that I mean.

Apple slices.  I had simply forgotten to slice the apples and put them on the table. We had just sat down to one of the evening meals that I had spent about three hours on – planning, shopping, making sure it would have both carnivore and herbivore appeal, and preparing – and I realized I had forgotten the apples.  I asked if anyone really wanted apples, and the responses were varied.  Tired and not really willing to slice even one apple, I said, “Well, if you want apples, you can cut them yourself.”   There followed some jovial banter about if I truly loved them I would cut apples because that’s what mothers do.  My response: “I’m kind of done mothering.”

We proceeded to eat dinner amiably, but that last sentence stuck around.  It hung in the air for a bit, and then descended and started lurking in corners around the house.  One of my sons brought it up jokingly when I mentioned there were snacks they could help themselves to.  I even wrote a poem about it.  Since then, though, I have been embracing the truth in that statement.

Of course, I'll always be a mother.  Being a mother is one of the roles that I am most proud of in my life.  But, I am many other things.  My boys are growing up.  My mom once told me that "the point of being a parent is to work yourself out of a job."  In many respects that's true.  I don't change diapers any more; I don' t shop for Garanimals for them any more; and, as I have recently had to remind my youngest, I don't need to see anything below your waist unless you think something is wrong down there.  I'm in a transition phase of this mom job.

I’m done mothering in as much as it means I have to cut apple slices for men/boys who are 21, 18 and 12.  I’m done mothering in as much as it means I need to do laundry for those self-same people.  I’m not willing to plan perfectly balanced suppers any more, and I’m not going to pack healthful lunches with smiley face notes.   That’s the kind of mothering I am done with.  My youngest son suggested a few days ago that if I get lonely once they all leave home, I could adopt a child.  No.  There are women who want to keep mothering young children indefinitely; I know some of them.  I respect them.  I do not want to do that. 

I don’t really want to shoot baskets in the driveway any more.  I mean, I will do that but…get a friend or brother to join you.  I’m not picking up your belongings because you had a long day at school – so did I.  I have had twenty-one years of long days at school.  Make your own lunch for tomorrow, and you can help make supper, too.

I am not suggesting that my sons are sloppy or inconsiderate or demanding.  My middle son has done his own laundry since middle school. My eldest might tell you that he has always felt older than he is due to my parenting.  Overall,  I have put lots of effort into raising them to be considerate, kind, and thoughtful.  They almost always are.  They are pretty independent, too.  When I go to book club, they make their own supper and clean it up.  It's funny when I see a mother who plans to go to her child’s college town on the child’s birthday to celebrate with him.  Here’s a spoiler: the kid doesn’t want you to do that.  Send them a new sweater, a funny card, and some money.  Such mothers are trying to keep themselves occupied and their children young and dependent.  

Just like those birthday-celebrating mothers continue to do, I have put enormous pressure on myself over the years to make sure my sons’ socks match and their nice shirts are on the hangers and there's a vegetable and starch and protein on every plate at every meal.  I have been the slave-master and slave at the same time.  A slave to whatever I thought I “should do” or that I thought other mothers were doing and that I needed to do to “keep up” or risk having socially-stunted and unkind children going out my door each morning.  Now, I certainly don’t care if your socks match or your jeans are neatly pressed.  If you have french fries and cheese for supper when I'm at work late, then ok. I’m done embracing mothering pressure.   

I’m done mothering if your room is messy or your fail to brush your hair. I’m done mothering if you want a snack but can’t see the pile of clementines or box of granola bars or jar of cookies.  I will usually make supper, but just know that unless it’s a holiday, I’m not really feeling it.  I’ll help with homework if I can, but that’s unlikely.  You’ll probably have to stay after school for help from the teacher and study with friends.  I am happy to listen to laments about friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, finances, school, and jobs; that’s the kind of mothering I will always be available for.  I’ll discuss politics, religion, television, movies, and social trends.  I’ll always be there to hug you and tell you I love you.  Always.  But, I’m not going to make sure your sock drawer is in order or that your underwear is folded.    I’ll make sure you aren’t living in your own filth if you are in my home.  If you’re on your own, you really should clean up, but I’m not going to come by and check.

There are all kinds of mothers in the world, and I’d like to think that I have been a decent one for twenty-one years and that I will continue to evolve in this position.  I’m done mothering boys.  I’ll happily mother young men, but they are going to have to cut their own apples.

Read Between the Lines

I remember the days when my three boys took turns (unwittingly) telling me:

a) how beautiful I am

b) how wonderful I am

c) how they will buy me a mansion and diamonds when they get older and they will go to work and I can stay home and watch cartoons all day

d) how I am the best mommy in the world

e) all of the above

Today was not that day.  Yesterday wasn’t either.  In fact, those days are long gone. 

Today is a new day. 

Here is a sampling of what I’ve had today:

Key:      AJ = son #1  (age: 20)

            CD = son #2  (age: 18)

            NG = son #3  (age: 12)

To be fair:  these are all approximations of sentences or exchanges that happened today unless noted with quotation marks.  These are in no particular order.

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AJ:  Did you know there’s a psychological disorder that you can develop when you have one awesome parent and one loser parent?

NG:  (when I asked why my hip was hurting):  “You are old.”

CD:  My friends worry if you will be in a good mood at school.  (Note:  I am always in a good mood at school as far as anyone knows!)

CD:  Do we have to have a Russian test tomorrow? 

CD: Who won the donuts any way?

NG:  I have a social studies quiz tomorrow.

NG:  (when asked about studying for above quiz):  There’s no quiz.  Who told you that?

AJ:  Massage school and bartending school sound good.

CD:  I am Don Quixote.

NG:  You don’t really know English, do you, Mom? (disbelieving look from me)  Well, I mean, not middle school English.

AJ:  I think a Jack Keroauc kind of traveling around thing would be cool.  (As long as it’s not Chris McCandless, ok.)

CD:  I totally have a good shot at Cornell.

CD:  I’m never getting into Cornell; just sign me up for community college now.

NG:  You don’t know Spanish, Mom.

CD:  What?

CD:  Good just exploit me; I don’t care.

AJ:  Volunteering around the world would be cool.

NG:  I was sad…and perturbed.

CD:  (when told his aunt broke her toe)  Hee hee. Swift.  No, seriously, is she ok?

NG:  I am special.

CD: (in a Snape voice) "Since you’re not doing anything productive (as I type this blog), can you quiz me on this?" (handing me anatomy notes)

NG:  But that’s not what inquisitive means.

AJ:  I hope not.

NG:  I did wash my hair.

CD:  I am magical.  Like a unicorn.

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I think if you read between the lines you can still see the original phrases, hidden here and there, having taken on a bit of a different shape.  The boys are communicating in their own ways.  People tell you things.  Weird things.  Unrelated things.  Incomprehensible things. At unexpected times.

It’s all important.  Listen.  It's all magical.

On Yogurt, Moose, and Giving Back

Last month my middle son and I embarked on a 10-day, 14-college road trip in the Northeast, Mid-Atlantic and Southeast.  Three pounds of Twizzlers, twelve Dasani, nine cool local cafés, half a pound of peanut butter pretzels, seven “Bear Crossing” signs, five rolls of Spree, two iPods, eleven states, six Perriers, one pound of almonds, one unsatisfying café on the Erie Canal, and innumerable tanks of gas, we were home again.  I learned a lot about the colleges we visited.  I also learned that in Vermont they “take their speed limits very seriously,” and the trooper is happy to regale you with the tale of the hit-and-run moose death while he stands precariously on the side of a mountainous road.  (speed limit: 50).  Lots of learning. 

One of the things we learned is that mid-level hotel breakfast bars are about the same nationwide – at least east of the Mississippi.  Let me just confess now that I am not a yogurt fan.  I foisted it on all three of my sons in their formative years, and they all enjoy it greatly.  I tried kefir when I lived in Moscow.  Gelatinous milk product just doesn't do it for me.  I know that it’s good for me – watch any daytime TV, and Jamie Lee Curtis will smile and have you believe that her life is worth living due to a certain brand of this dairy product.  Still, in the past year, a colleague encouraged me to try Greek yogurt, and I have come to tolerate it, if not occasionally enjoy it.  So, imagine my delighted surprise when the third hotel morning into the trip, there were not only the requisite muffins, but also Greek yogurt.  The next day, however, we were back to the standard yogurts.  I commented to my son that I wished there were Greek yogurt at each hotel.  His response?  An askew glance and a good-natured but chiding, “Some people have don’t even have food, Mom.  First world probs.”

Yes, he is right:  the UN estimated that there were 870 million undernourished people worldwide in 2012.  Of these, 16 million live in developed countries.  All my life I have seen commercials about sponsoring suffering children, as well as heard half-jokes about cleaning your plate because someone is starving somewhere in the world.  However, I cannot see the connection between my off-handed wish for Greek yogurt and world hunger.  Just as a little girl sitting in Iowa, being forced to clean her plate does not alleviate a hunger problem in a village in Africa; my hope of yogurt does not instantly cause life-giving grains and water to be denied to someone on the other side of the planet. 

I am not belittling the world hunger problem at all.  My observation is this: there seems to be a proliferation of the ill-conceived thought that because there are problems in the world, those of us who live decently must not voice any desires for that which we do not have.  I guess the thought is that since we (not sure where the socio-economic stratus starts and ends here) have so much, we dare not complain, wish for more, or fail to drop a few dollars in the red pots at Christmas time.  I think this way of thinking is a problem.  Simply put:  because there are problems in the world does not mean I am not allowed to enjoy my life or wish for Greek yogurt on a rainy upstate morning.

Of course, I am aware of how offendingly elitist the previous paragraph may sound.  But, really, the thing is that there are groups of people (teens, like my dear son, are heavily represented in such groups) who feel that until the entire world has food and water, those of us who have shouldn't complain about anything and we should donate to everything.  It’s a bit overwhelming. 

On this same trip, we stayed one night in a bed and breakfast in New England.  A lovely place which was originally a lodging house, and, we found out later, was haunted in room 20.  (We stayed in room 27).  As a matter of convenience, the owners laid out small toiletries in the bathroom.  Please know that I almost always use such toiletries when on a road trip and if I don’t use them, I leave them in place.  I don’t hoard them, but if I use a portion of a lotion or shampoo, I bring it along with me to use later.  In short, I try not to be wasteful.   At this inn, however, near the basket of toiletries, was a request that we leave our partially used tubes there so that they could be donated to a local children’s charity.  Why is a tube of shampoo no longer than my middle finger, three quarters used being donated?  If the owners wish to donate to this cause, perhaps an annual donation is in order – but small, partially consumed tubes?  This has to be as annoying to the recipients as the request was off-putting to me.   

Well, on a 3700 mile trip one has time for a lot of Twizzlers, a lot of highly questionable music selections, and a lot of reflection.  Why is it that we seem to have polarized our society into those who donate half used lotions to charities vs. those who are above even mentioning what they want because they just go buy it without a second thought?  I fall somewhere in the middle.

I’m uncomfortable.  I’m squeezed.  I’m caring.  I’m annoyed.

I donate to our school’s various campaigns for umbrellas for the homeless, gently used books for our African sister school, and the eyeglass drive for the blind.  (And, I even refrain from the curiously cynical remark that comes to mind every year at that last event.)  However, why must the mentality of needing to always be ready to donate and not being allowed a wish for an additional comfort be confronted at every turn?  Has it become essential to think of less fortunate people every moment of every day?  If so, how, then is one expected to also “seize the moment” and “enjoy life”?  I suspect there exists a group of well-meaning but rather hard people who are working on a movement to ensure that those of us with even a small modicum of comfort in life are uncomfortable with our comfort until the world’s problems have all been eradicated.  The thing is:  that’s not realistic.

Some of you will think that there are political ramifications that I am missing here.  There are.  Others may think that I’m heartless.  I’m not.  I think I’m kind of normal.  I have a career.  I have kids.  I pay taxes.  I have pets.  I try to do good.  And, I am happy to help with causes.  I have learned it is good to donate and help.  Like you, though, I don’t want to always be asked to donate – at the bank, at the grocery store, at the bed and breakfast.  I have learned that I have it really good compared to most of the world.  I am grateful.  But, I think we are entitled to keep our half-used lotion for later in the day.  And, once in a while, I’d like to have a Greek yogurt on the breakfast bar.  I don’t need it.  It’d just be nice.

Independence and Strong Winds

Yesterday my eldest son called me from college to lament the fact that with half the summer now gone, he finally found a summer job.  The deal we had was that he could go to summer semester if he paid his own living expenses, hence the need for a job.  After a month of sweating it, this looks like it will pan out.  However, he noted that he was going to have to go to class most of the day, then work all evening, and then he’d have to get up earlier to study for class.  His whole day would be taken up with – gasp – work!  Either class work or work-work or working out (which he has to do to stay in shape for his ROTC scholarship).  He went on to tell me that real life wasn't like this: you didn't have to work your job and then work after your job, too.  (I chuckled.  Out loud.) He was lamenting not because he is incapable.  Not because he’s a spoiled baby.  He was lamenting simply because he has been hit on the head with the brick of adult life.  

Last week at a conference in Iowa, the coordinator gave strict instructions to the attendees:  if there’s a tornado warning do not follow the people from Iowa.  Why?  Because the people from Iowa would not take shelter, they would go out to see the storm.  When I was little, the sirens could send me, my sisters, and mom to the basement in the late afternoon or even in the middle of the night.  I remember more than one basement sleep out due to the Ozian conditions outside.  Well, I actually don’t know what the conditions were because I was relegated to the basement.  However, I do remember realizing that Dad was rarely in the basement with us.  He was on the porch, watching the storm do its thing.  I suppose he wanted to see the beast that was to sweep us all away or maybe he was simply giving instructions to the wind, “Okay, that’s good.  Now, move on so I can go to bed; I have work in the morning.”  I do clearly remember the first time I was allowed not to be in the basement – I was about in 5^th grade, and the sirens were blaring outside and the weathermen were predicting wind-induced apocalypse.  Mom trundled my sisters downstairs, and I slipped through the living room to join Dad on the porch.  The wind, the rain, the dark clouds were all thrilling.  “This isn't going to amount to much, Laura,” and Dad walked around the garage to make sure the garbage cans hadn't overturned.  From that time on, I didn't have to go to the basement.

Maybe such feelings of being grown up are not really true.  The fact of the matter is:  my dad was right there.  I felt independent, and of course I lorded it over my sisters the next day that I didn't have to cower downstairs.  But, in retrospect, it wasn't the standing on the porch that made Dad a grown up  - it was that he righted the garbage cans before he went back inside.  That’s the stuff grown-up, independent life is made of, as my eldest is finding out this summer.  

Compared to many of my peers, I have been a late bloomer in the traditions of growing up.  I bought my first car at age 42.  I bought my first house at age 43.  Sure, I've been employed ever since I had a shopper newspaper route that I complained vociferously about every week.  And, I've been a mom for 20 years. But still, although I've been watching the tornadoes pass since 5^th grade, I have only recently taken on these major adult signs of independence.  It’s overrated.  I’m ready to get rid of some of them, just as my eldest son is taking stock and adjusting his sails to adult winds. 

Independence is what we celebrate today, and the thing that I am reminded of on this day is that with independence comes responsibility.  Without going down some patriotic path, it behooves me to remember that the bricks of adult life – whatever they may be for each individual – are what we build our lives with.  And, dad isn't always going to be on the porch with us.  We have to tend to our own garbage cans.  The summer jobs, the classes, the relationships, the places to live, the hobbies, the games, the friends, the things we fill our time with – these are the independences that our lives are made of.  And, yes, indeed, if any wind is going to try and sweep things away, I do want to meet it.  In the meantime, though, I will try to help my son choose his bricks wisely while reconsidering my own.