Celebrating, With or Without You

My dad, my giant personality in a giant body Dad, should be celebrating his 80th birthday today, but he's not. We will celebrate, we will raise a glass (and if it was warmer Jack would smoke a cigar but it's freezing outside and that stinky thing is an outdoor activity), and I will tell my girls stories about their grandfather, ones they have most certainly heard but ones that give me comfort and make me laugh and allow me to feel, just for a bit, that he is a part of their lives in a way that is not just stories but real day to day grandfather stuff.

Several nights ago my sister and I went back and forth via text, hashing out dates and years and time frames that all led to the demise of Bill and Sharie's once promising life together. Ashley was 8 (I think), I was 16. Maybe, I know I could drive because all I wanted to do when they told us was leave and go to a friends' house, which they did not allow. I actually thought they were kidding, several of their good friends had recently made the same announcement; I thought it was a Keeping Up with the Neighbors kind of joke. It was not. I realized that the specifics, now over thirty years later, didn't really matter at all. Our lives were changed forever, the ripple effect of their decision still in play today.

Dad moved to an apartment just a few minutes walk from our house. In no time he had married his secretary but just stop right there. Dad's secretary was 10 years his senior, not smoking hot, and a bit bossy, in a matronly kind of unpleasant way. She vehemently disliked both my sister and me; her first direction as the new Mrs. Lang was to change the locks on the apartment that was now theirs. Interesting way to cozy up to the stepchildren, she continued on this charming path for most of their 19 year marriage. When Dad died I think she was genuinely surprised at our grief, and it was clear to me, that even after 19 years, she had no capacity to understand just how much Ashley and I loved our Dad. I felt a tiny bit bad for her. Tiny bit.

The stepmother died a few years ago. I had remained in contact with her as she had been very interested in my children and had, uncharacteristically, been very kind to them, always remembering them at birthdays and Christmas. She said once she was doing what Dad would have wanted and I appreciated that effort, even though I knew that there was little anyone could do to represent what my father might have meant to my children.

Mom and Dad worked hard to maintain a very friendly relationship. My sister, still very young, benefited greatly from their willingness to work together. It wasn't perfect and while I went off to college, she took the brunt of the saga of the divorced parents. It's never easy but I appreciate so much that they tried. They had been friends since high school, and they continued, in a new and unique way, to be friends until Dad died.

Yesterday, on the phone with Mom covering the Mother's Day things, she was quiet for a minute and then said, "your father would be 80 years old tomorrow". The quiet was now on my end. Mom just turned 79, she was a year behind him at Hillcrest High.

"I know Mom, I know."
"Your dad would have done 80 so well."

Sitting at the island in our kitchen, the same island that came from Mom's house, on the phone with my mother while one daughter bakes a Mother's Day cake and the other sets the table for the dinner, I imagine what life might look like if there were two more places set at that table, if our downstairs guest room was full of grandparents and love and laughter.

"I always loved your dad Allyson, I always did."

I know that too Mom. 
Happy birthday Dad, we all miss you so very much.

Dammit Allyson It's Mother's Day

He would have said, "God dammit Allyson, it's Mother's Day".

And I would have said, "but Dad it's your birthday".

And he'd guffaw and lean back in his chair, "yes, and it has been for  years. Go, celebrate with your family, you're a mother now, more important than being a daughter".

"But Dad..."

"Although I really don't know about you celebrating Mother's Day, as far as I can see you should just celebrate Father's Day twice. Seems to me that husband of yours does all the hard work."

But he didn't say that, although I know that he would have.

Happy Birthday Dad, Happy Mother's Day Me.

And Dad, Jack does all the laundry.

 

Mother's Day

  

Whenever you have a problem,

And at school you are big and bold

Don't worry, your mother's love is around you

Forever she will have a hand to hold.

Mary, 8

Button Up Your Overcoat

The woman behind the counter smiled and I pointed to my coat from the rack behind the desk. The unseasonably cool, and foggy, weather had necessitated a coat on an early May day that should have been warm and sunny, as my footwear indicated: flip flops and freshly manicured feet. She held my coat as I slid in and then, rather than let go, she smoothed the arms, pulled the front together and said, "it's cold out, let me help you", as she buttoned the three buttons on the front of my coat.

An intimate gesture from the woman who owned the nail salon, someone I had known for several years but whose name I had never taken the time to learn.

"Thank you, that was so nice", I stumbled. I pay people to rub my feet and massage my shoulders but this simple gratuitous act knocked me, so briefly, out of the role I have been cultivating for seven years.

Walking back to the train, snugly buttoned in my old trench coat, I realized that it had been a very long time since I had been on the receiving end of the calm and nurturing act of mothering.

Somewhere along the way I have switched from being the button'ee to the button'er.

Happy Mother's Day to all, especially the nice woman at the nail salon who, in three buttons, took me back to a place I had not been in years, and reminded me just how good it feels to let someone else button your coat.

Critical Thought on Mother's Day

My mother has always been harshly critical of other mothers. She focused her judgemental commentary on three women, all with the same name, but had no problem in lashing out at others when she found it appropriate. In retrospect I see that no one was really safe from her critical eye, the mothers of most of my childhood friends having been targeted at one point.

For reasons never completely understood it was my aunt who faced the worst of her blows. The mother of five children, she was constantly blasted by my mother for the choices she made. Clothing, schools, church and travel were all easy targets; the dynamics of family order a favorite topic for my mother who was convinced that there was no possible way to manage five children. That all five children are grown, amazing people with full lives of their own is the best response. My aunt, also the mother of twins, has supported me mightily for the past 7 years. She cheers me on, tells me I am doing a good job, and hugs me when I am tired. She was there on the day the girls were born; she held my hand, changed a diaper and confirmed what I had hoped to be true: my grandmother would have been very proud of me, and my family. Her love and support, not to mention proven track record, makes my days a little brighter.

Mothering is hard. My two children challenge me, enrage me, thrill me, love me and bring me more happiness than I could have ever expected. The choices I make are difficult; I don't always do what's best but I try to do what is best for us. I'm not immune to criticism; I fault other parents for putting their children in danger, for allowing them to run willy nilly through Trader Joe's and for sending them back to school before they have had time to fully recover from whatever kept them home. It is difficult for me to understand why some people fail to take responsibility for their own children, or why they don't see themselves as role models to children who watch everything they do. When it's my job to set the standard and take actions that support our children as part of a greater world, why isn't that the job of every parent? It's easy to criticize and hard to do the job that maintains the standards in which I believe. But I try, I try not to be critical of others, and I hope that most people are doing the best job they can.

Certainly there are mothers who, simply put, are just not good at this. Mothers who harm their children, or put their needs categorically in front of those of their child; mothers who abandon their children or worse, although that is something that I now, as a mother, cannot even discuss. But in the end, I do believe that we are trying our best. It's from other mothers that I draw encouragement, and occasionally reprieve. My girls know to find Tracy at school if I'm not around, that Kari will teach them to do flips in the pool, Lisa will join them for tea, and Sato will spend hours teaching them to jump rope; but for the influence of these people my children's lives would be far less colorful . We may not do everything the same but we all do what we think our best is, and that is not anything I can ever criticize.

Perhaps the very best present anyone can give their mom on Mother's Day is to grow up and be the very best person they can be. As much as I love the buttons and paintings made in art class, I think the very best gift is to see, even now, two happy and well adjusted children who work hard, have fun, treat others kindly and love their family. Happy Mother's Day to those who help, those who encourage, support and enlighten, those who taught me how to be a mother, and the two children who give me reason to celebrate.

Finding Two Reasons to Celebrate

Six years ago Mother's Day fell on my father's birthday, as it does occasionally. But my father had died six months earlier, which had not happened before, and I was dreading the day. I was not a mother but I was ready to be, and then I miscarried, two days before Mother's Day. But that wasn't enough, our dear friends had asked Jack and I to be the Godparents to their wonderful son, we were honored and overwhelmed, and the baptism was to be on Mother's Day. So on my father's 62nd birthday, which he was not with us to celebrate, two days after miscarrying in my first pregnancy, I was to hold the infant son of one of my best friend's in a church and pledge to help raise him as a good Catholic, on Mother's Day.

Surprisingly being with people I love and holding a new baby proved to be exactly what I needed on what had promised to be a truly horrible day, and it wasn't.

The next year I spent Mother's Day at a Cubs game, five months pregnant, feet up and happy. Things had improved, as often they do. And each year I rejoice just a little bit more, ever grateful to have not one but two wonderful reasons to celebrate. While I'm thankful for the little people who made me a mom I also remember the many who have mothered me, the list is long, and I appreciate each and every person who taught me bits and pieces of all that I need to know: removing band aids quickly is really best, singing "I Eat My Peas With Honey" while eating peas really does make them taste better, written correspondence does matter, bodily functions are funny, laughing is important, loving is best, and singing is a great way to start the day.

Happy mother's day to all who mother, and to those who listen to us sing.