Although she is gone, I continue to honor her memory.
Today is Mother's Day, May 10, 2015. I thought this would be an appropriate Blog for all of the mothers, step-mothers, mothers of multiple pets, Grandmother, Aunts and Uncles who have guardianship of children, foster moms and especially, the one's who have stolen my heart; the single working mother. Enjoy. <3JM
Mother
Of 8 Tells It Like It Really Is
Globe-Times
Staff Writer
When
I was told to write a first person Mother’s Day story, I squirmed and
protested. “I can’t…my kids would kill
me.”
Earlier
I had watched and listened with detached interest to a discussion in the
newsroom on feature possibilities for Mother’s Day.
One
staff member had proposed an interview with a sterilized mother of two adopted
children. Another suggested a spread
about a Spanish mother of several children who was adjusting to the customs of
a new country.
And
then I felt the eyes of those who rule on me and I guess you could say I was
compromised.
I
am not sterilized and I am not Spanish but I am the mother of eight children
and a staff writer with the Globe-Times.
Tomorrow
is Mother’s Day and I will probably iron.
As
is customary in our house, I received my Mother’s Day gifts yesterday
immediately because few small children can wait two whole days with the gifts
they made in art class that afternoon.
Gifts Galore
Joanne,
our third grader at
A
card made by my 11-year-old, less religious in tone, said “Hi Toots, to a
mother different from any other,” was signed “from your dear child Jane.”
Five-year-old
Patty came in from kindergarten yesterday, her arms behind her back and
grinning said, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Mom” and handed me a card filled with
homemade stars. Inside was printed (not
by Patty), “I love Mother, Mother loves me, I will help her like a busy bee.”
“But you’re not my mother,” my husband Ben reminded me smilingly once when I mentioned his disinterest in gift giving. He still points proudly to the Christmas three years ago when he gave me a steam iron.
My
children range in age from 22 to 5 and I find them delightful. I also love my job. Combining the two is a challenge for a woman
who is disorganized and resentful of a night routine of packing lunches and
tidying up. As a result, working against
deadlines in a newspaper office is nothing compared to some of the challenges I
face before I leave home in the morning.
While
most employees at the Globe-Times are breakfasting and glancing over their
morning papers, I am crawling under beds looking for lost shoes.
On a bad morning recently, it took ingenuity to pack three lunches with frozen bread which I’d forgotten to take out of the freezer and without cold meat, which I neglected to buy.
Another day the dog ate the lunches.
A
thermometer has an important place in our home and ours, much of the time, is
jutting out of the mouths of children who claim to be taken with a sudden virus
on school mornings.
Schoolitis
The
same youngsters who raced around the house the night before stagger down the
steps in the morning dramatically claiming it is impossible for them to go to
school.
One
recent morning there was a record four children who complained of being near
death. While suspecting the familiar
school virus, their temperatures had to be taken…with 100 degrees the magic
number in order to stay home from school.
Two
children later and no one had produced a temperature over 98.6 so the next one
in line, eyeing the results to date, complained about severe pains in the
stomach…a harder to detect illness.
Jim,
who just became a teenager, one morning, produced a temperature of 110 degrees
with the help of a pan of hot water.
When
I first started working, my husband and I sensibly decided to start an
allowance system to encourage the children to help with housework.
Outsmarted
Greeted with much enthusiasm, the allowance project worked beautifully for three days…dishes were washed…beds were made.
And
then we were outsmarted. One
before-going-to-bed check of bedrooms revealed four children asleep in sleeping
bags so they wouldn’t have to make their beds in the morning.
A
child, assigned to peel 12 potatoes for dinner, cagily peeled a dozen of the
smallest potatoes in the basket and when I entered the kitchen I found only the
bottom of the pan covered with spuds the size of large marbles.
As
a final sign that early enthusiasm were ebbing was my argument with Jim,
assigned to do breakfast dishes, on his contention that breakfast dishes and
the clearing of the table could just as easily be done after school as
before. Note: Jim has always disappeared immediately after
school and until dinner time.
Allowances
were sliced in half.
Letter to Jibs
This
cut in allowances inspired Joanne, our eight-year-old, always eager to take a
pen in hand, to write a letter to her sister, Elizabeth, called “Jibs” a junior
at
“Dear
Jibs, When are you going to come home?
Jane cleaned your closet. Its
neat in there. Jim got your card or
letter. We had to wate three days after
his birthday until we could sing to him.
Were getting a picnic table. Our
allouances have been cut again. Patty
gets 13 cents (it isn’t worth it) a week.
I get 25 cents. I can hardly buy
anything with it but at leste I get it on Friday. Then I sleep downstairs and eat the candy
from my allouance. I’ll see you soon.
Your sister, Joanne.”
Mike,
our oldest son, is home for the summer from University of Pennsylvania
Coming
home from work is an experience which is matched only by leaving in the
morning.
“Jim
was reading my letters,” was the cry from out 16-year-old daughter Chris, which
greeted my homecoming yesterday. Two
wanted friends to sleep over for the weekend and as I was starting the
breakfast dishes at 4:30, my son called for a ride home from his summer job.
Bright Future
Surveying an untidy, tinker-toy littered house, I’m consoled by remembering my husband’s favorite saying. “A hundred years from now, what difference will it make?”
I
consider myself one of the luckiest women in the world. I have eight healthy, highly individualistic
children. While they brawl and scream,
they also laugh a lot and occasionally display gentleness.
I’m not concerned that I’ve contributed toward the population explosion. I like to feel instead that I’ve given eight more people to the world who will search for solutions to problems plaguing mankind.
And
while they’re growing up, I’ve had experiences which I’ll never forget.
Rude Awakening
While
stretched out in bed one Sunday afternoon, a child sneaked into the room and
dropped a small garter snake on me and watched delightedly with her two friends
as I tried, in complete panic to burrow my way down through the mattress to
escape it.
I’ve
had my sons look at me with new respect after I’d beat them at pool.
I’ve
read a newspaper sodden with spilled orange juice and paid telephone bills
smeared with jelly.
I’ve
watched my daughter’s boyfriend stroke her hair adoringly while she laughed
uproariously at a comic strip she’s reading.
I
went out in the yard to hang up clothes recently, looked up to the sky to check
for rain, and walked into a muskrat hanging on the clothesline drying out.
How
many women can girdle themselves for the day and disregard middle age spread
because their scale has told them they only weigh 28 pounds? I can…our scare is rusted by gallons of water
spilled from children in the bathtub and it registers up to 28 pounds….no more.
And I’ve had Patty wrap her arms around and say, “Mommy, I only hated you for a little while this morning.”
These
experiences and others have strengthened me to meet the wrath of my children
today when they read about themselves in the newspaper.
No comments:
Post a Comment