Reflections on Motherhood - Mothers Day 2009

From the earliest I can remember, I wanted to be a mommy. Other options during my 40's-50's growing up years seemed to be nurse, teacher, and secretary. Mommy seemed like the best of the bunch. It was hard for me to believe that something so wonderful could ever happen to me.

Brian was born on October 2, 1963, the morning after the landlord called demanding the rent we didn't have. I gave him a nice guilt trip when I told him he brought on my labor!

On November 22, 1963, which would have been my mother's 52nd birthday, I got a call from a friend to turn on my radio--the President had been shot. I was no great fan of John F. Kennedy, but I lay on the couch with my infant son on my chest and wept that in these modern times a President could be assassinated. I wondered into what kind of world I'd brought new life.

Brian was a delightful baby--happy, alert to everything around him, curious, and did I mention happy? We were alone for several months, my baby boy and I, since Daddy was in the Army and stationed halfway across the country. Somehow I bumbled through his first tonsillitis attack, this tiny boy with a high fever. Doctors at the Army Hospital at Ft. Sill, OK, walked me through ways to reduce his fever, and a drug store delivered medication. I was almost a child myself--just 22 and not entirely wise to the ways of the world. When my father-in-law died, 6-month old Brian and I flew to Maryland and stayed there for about 6 weeks to help my mother-in-law and we saw my husband often. Soon after I arrived, we stayed in the guest house at Ft. Dix, N.J., opened the little bottles of Manhattans from the airplane trip, and there's no doubt in my mind that baby number two was conceived that night.

Scott arrived on the scene January 11, 1965, just 15 months after Brian was born. I was delighted to have another son, and one who looked so very different. Brian was fair, with sparse blond hair when he was born; Scott resembled a baby monkey with lots of dark straight hair encroaching onto his cheeks and forehead. I guess that's not a good picture--he was certainly a darling baby, just so different from the first.

So, motherhood was in full swing--two baby boys, both in diapers, both needing attention, and by this time, their Daddy was home, out of the Army. He had a job working evenings, so he was around to help during the day and would get Brian ready for bed before he left for work. I can't remember ever being so happy. I loved washing, folding, even ironing little baby clothes. There were no disposable diapers then, and I folded and folded and folded, smiling the while.

We had no money, though. Most of what we had were hand-me-downs. The crib that Brian used was given to us by a Sergeant who'd laid down 5 babies in that crib. The high chair had no tray, so the baby was belted in and sat directly at the table. Worked fine. Neither child had a lot of clothes, but we managed, and they certainly didn't have the toys that today's children have, but there were plenty, and they were happy and good little boys.

Life changed when my husband and I split in the spring of 1966. After considerable deliberation, I decided to move back to Buffalo with the boys and live with my father until I could get things together. Thus started a new chapter in all of our lives.

My father was wonderful with the kids. They were good for him, but I'm sure that he was even better for them. That relatively short time of living with him was the foundation of the boys' relationship with their grandfather, the one constant male in their life that showed them unconditional love. Then I remarried, and we all moved to Grand Island, N.Y., about 15 minutes from where my Dad lived.

Three memorable incidents, although there are many.

Ol' Stick-in-the-Mud Scott

We were living on Grand Island, N.Y., in a house with acres of undeveloped land behind our house. A development was in progress there, but much was just dirt, scrub, and in the Spring, mud. Scott was just over six; Brian was seven, and they were bundled up for a chilly March day. Late afternoon, Brian ran in the back door, and breathlessly reported that Scott was stuck in the mud and couldn't get out. "...and I was stuck too, but this bigger kid got me out, but he couldn't get Scott out! Mom! Ya gotta come!" So out I went, with boots, jacket, gloves, and saw my little boy standing a hundred yards away in the mud. I got to him, and he looked so scared, it broke my heart. I got behind him and pulled him out--all but his boots, though. I carried him for a while, but I kept sinking into the mud and my caked boots got heavier and heavier. The house got further and further away and my load of little boy and boots gaining weight as I went got almost too much. I had to put Scott down and get the accumulated mud off my boots. Poor little guy had to put his stocking feet into that mud! I cleaned off my boots, picked up Scott and after what seemed like hours, got to the house, put the boys into the tub, and we all breathed. "I thought I was gonna die out there, Mom". Scott tried not to cry. He was fine. We were all fine.

The Composer

Brian was eight, and it was my birthday. He had been taking piano lessons for about two years, and didn’t have to be reminded about practicing. He did well. On my birthday, he gave me a song that he’d composed, all the notes written out. I was excited and asked him to play it for me. He said he couldn’t play it; he could write it. I said, in all my naïve and insensitive stupidity, “Brian, it’s wonderful that you wrote this for me, but how can you write it and not be able to play it?” I could tell I’d hurt his feelings, but I had no idea how to fix it or undo it, or even why it hurt him so. Years later, on a visit to Minneapolis, Brian played a part of a ballet he was writing, and he stopped at one point and told me he couldn’t play the next part. I asked the same naïve, insensitive and stupid question again (I’m a slow learner), and this time Brian wasn’t eight anymore, he was in his late 20’s and considerably more articulate. He wheeled around on the piano bench and gave me what for, asking if I thought Mozart could play every single instrument in the orchestra that he composed for? Of course not, I said. The twenty years were gone, and the eight year old boy sat in front of me, hurt, but now able to explain to his musically-ignorant mother. The sad thing is: I have never heard nor was I able to read the song that my beloved eight year old little boy wrote.

The School Bus Thief

We lived down the same side of the street as Grand Island's school bus garage, behind the school the boys attended. Brian had a friend named George he played with--they must have been 11 or 12. The call came in on a Saturday afternoon, from the Grand Island Police Station. Brian had been picked up for starting a school bus. My husband, Brian’s adoptive Dad, an Episcopal priest, donned his clerical collar and went to take care of it. Brian’s was scared witless, and pretty darned angry at his supposed friend George, who took off when he spotted the cops. I don’t know whether Brian ever saw George again, certainly not intentionally.

There are so many more. I am so proud to be mother of these two men.