Archive for Mothers
Nancy Friday wrote, “When I stopped seeing my mother with the eyes of a child, I saw the woman who helped me give birth to myself.” My mom, who died 12 years ago, birthed me under a fog of drugs, my dad pacing in the waiting room. The doctor emerged, and informed him that all 20 digits were present and accounted for; this pleased my Dad greatly. Babies were taken from their mothers in those days, and scheduling feedings and sleep was encouraged. My mom wanted desperately to nurse me, but she was told that it would not be safe since she had a heart condition. (Really) Days later, she returned home with this free-spirited number two daughter, who, from the day she was born, didn’t play by the rules.I remember my mother in her ICU bed, telling me that I had taught her a lot about being a mother, and thanking me. I remember one of her gifts to me when I didn’t know where to be—at her bedside or at home with my husband and daughters. She said, “I love you. Go home. With my blessing.” I came home on February 15th to my husband playing outside with our daughters. There was a sign on the door. Happy Valentine’s Day. They had moved the day on the calendar so we could celebrate it together. On this day, as I walked with the dogs, I thought of the sweetnesses that I have experienced in these woods, of #1 daughter being a pony or a unicorn, galloping through the woods, hair flying as her spirit soared. Of #2 daughter stopping at each Jack-in-the-Pulpit to make sure Jack was home. “Hello, Jack,” she said each and every time. Of my mother-in-law, reminding me that I am her other daughter, her daughter-in-love.
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My Town Monday: To Honor the Fathers and The Mothers
Saturday was the 65th anniversary of D-Day. Many men and women on both sides of the Pond, from all walks of life experienced things that changed their lives in ways they could not have imagined. They were from all walks of life; from cities and from villages. They wore olive drab and navy blue, uniforms, work clothes and house dresses. They lived in the dark at night, and spent hours in shelters. They experienced shortages of food, clothing and fuel.
Their courage and their stories have no boundaries. They teach us that we do live in the same town, on this beautiful blue planet we call Earth.
Please click here and here to read about my family’s experiences at that time.
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Travis Erwin runs the My Town Monday marquis. Wander on there to see what he has to say.
And To Honor the Mothers…
I have written that my mother-in-law was an English war bride who came to this country after WWII. During the war, she worked in a factory, making gun sights. Fear, she says, wasn’t an option. Survival was the only choice.
Memories are shared: hiding under the dining room table during air raids, riding her bicycle home from the factory at night in the dark—no lights allowed during the blackout, the scream of bombs—listening for the the drones since no one ever knew where they’d land. When the air raid sirens sounded when she was at work, my mother-in-law had to run across an open field to the shelter, hearing bullets hit the metal roofs of the buildings and the train tracks that were like beacons in the moonlight. My mother-in-law remembers her father being a member of the Home Guard, his rake and hoe his weapons. She recalls that the English never would have been able to defend their land if the Americans hadn’t been involved in the War.
A young girl named Rose was placed with my mother-in-law’s family, a safe haven from the industrial city where she lived. The child wouldn’t sleep in a bed at first; she’d sleep on the floor. She hadn’t been bathed in a very long time and was fearful of the tub. It took quite a long time for Rose to feel safe with my mother-in-law’s family. One day,during a lull in the bombing, a woman came to the door. It was Rose’s mother. She had come to claim her daughter and take her back to the city. Shortly thereafter, the bombing resumed. The road on which Rose and her mother lived was destroyed. There were no survivors.
Musings on a Day for Mothers
I have mixed feelings on this day of days. I am reminded that I am a motherless child and that there are so many things I would ask my mom if she were here. I can still hear her voice on the phone, “Hi, Doll.” And I can see the young mother with 2 daughters making grilled cheese sandwiches to go with the tomato soup that came out of the red and white can. I think of the woman who witnessed this daughter’s journey for independence and to find her own way. The woman who didn’t understand the choices her daughter made and had her own struggle to accept them. The woman who loved her granddaughters unconditionally.
I remember my mother in her ICU bed, telling me that I had taught her a lot about being a mother, and thanking me. I remember one of her gifts to me when I didn’t know where to be—at her bedside or at home with my husband and daughters. She said, “I love you. Go home. With my blessing.” I came home on February 15th to my husband playing outside with our daughters. There was a sign on the door. Happy Valentine’s Day. They had moved the day on the calendar so we could celebrate it together.
On this day, as I walked with the dogs, I thought of the sweetnesses that I have experienced in these woods, of #1 daughter being a pony or a unicorn, galloping through the woods, hair flying as her spirit soared. Of #2 daughter stopping at each Jack-in-the-Pulpit to make sure Jack was home. “Hello, Jack,” she said each and every time. Of my mother-in-law, reminding me that I am her other daughter, her love-in-law.
Happy Mothers’ Day to us all. Those of us who are one, who made one, and who have or had one. Take a moment to cherish those you love.
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Thanks to these fine women, among many others, who have shared their thoughts on this day:
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