She Would Be Proud

I have run a household since I was fifteen years old. As as a teenager I pulled through the death of my mother, then my father. Without parents, I survived the attentions of an over-opinionated, bossy aunt. At twenty I studied in London and traveled through Europe. I bought and learned to ride a motorcycle, and I didn't cry when I repeatedly burned my calves on the tailpipe. I put myself through college and then graduate school, through waitressing, scholarships and assistantships. I lived and worked in Japan as a newlywed. I have published a poem on living in Japan and a peer-reviewed academic paper on avian food-storing. I have worked at the University of Maine for the Vice President for Research, managing federal grants and research events with U.S. Senators in Washington D.C.. I can make mushroom risotto, bechamel sauce and a decent cheesecake. I know how not to overcook vegetables and I know the value of local food. I can change the oil in my own vehicle, fix an old toilet and install curtain rods—with a drill. And at any given moment, I can pretend I am calm and in charge when indeed I am ridden with anxiety, when all I want to do is to give up and call for my mother.

Losing a mother at any age is devastating. As a teenager, I kept my emotions at bay by burying myself in homework, books, and activities with friends. But I did feel sorry for myself when I stopped long enough to think about my situation: a mother who died a premature death at forty-six, an alcoholic father and my only sibling, my big brother, away at his first year in college. The self pity never lasted too long in one session, but it crept up regularly over the years.

Then sixteen years after my mom died, the grieving for myself was turned on its head by something I had always hoped for: the birth of my own daughter--my motherhood.

I was so used to thinking of my life story from my perspective—natural, perhaps--that I never really thought of how my mother must have felt before she died, knowing she was leaving two children behind—with a less than able father. When I became a mother to my first daughter Zoe, my grief perspective shifted. For the first time I was the protector, the mother. My god, I thought, how on earth did my mother leave? How excruciating the pain must have been for her, knowing how much I still, we all still, needed her. She was the center of the family, the magnet, the life-force.

I became a mother at thirty-one, barely. Coincidentally, this was the same age my mother was when she had me, and my daughter Zoe was born two days before my own birthday. I went through the seasons of my pregnancy thinking that my mom had felt the same pangs in the same months, and had to endure a heavy, hot summer before birthing an August baby. I held my daughter, and gaped at the improbable life of her, surely just as my mom gaped at me. Ah, but I would never leave Zoe too soon; that's where the similarities would end.

I was working at University of Maine when I became pregnant with Zoe. Not knowing what motherhood would demand of me, I boldly asked my supervisors if I could work from home while caring for my new baby. Amazingly, they agreed. After my six weeks of maternity leave were over, I reluctantly turned on the office computer. I knew in my gut even then that it was already too late. My world had utterly changed; my entire hierarchy of needs and ambitions had been rearranged by this baby. Caring for her eased my grief, it gave me joy like no other, it gave me more flesh and blood in my family—flesh and blood that came by way of my mother's DNA. It turned my focus from myself to someone else. And it was the hardest thing I had ever done.

When other parents heard we were expecting our first baby, they asked about names and joked about lack of sleep and our social life going down the drain. They kept it light and smiled saying our life would never be the same. The hubris I exhibited in thinking that we would be different, that life would pretty much carry on as usual, just with our baby tagging along. When all the baby accessories started cluttering up the house in preparation for the big arrival, I should have been tipped off. The high chair in the middle of the kitchen through-way, the wind-up swing squeezed in our small den, the playpen with the changing table on top, the musical bouncy seat, the baby bathtub behind the bathroom door. All the baby gear certainly messed with out usual orderly, attempt-at-zenful state of things. But then she came, and all the anonymous clunky gear was transformed into her things, and by association became beautiful.

Perhaps all of the worldly experiences, skills and jobs I engaged in up to age thirty-one helped prepare me for being a mother, perhaps only some of them did. Most of those experiences were all about satisfying my own needs and desires—but I did learn quite a few useful skills and gained confidence in myself. One would think that such world-tested self confidence would prove invaluable as a parent, but being in charge of keeping another person alive, helping that helpless being to thrive, tests confidence like nothing else. Zoe sometimes would cry for hours on end, and we could do nothing to calm her. I would nurse her for hours, nurse her while making work phone calls and answering work email. Then she would spit up what seemed like gallons.We called all our experienced friends for advice, I prodded my out-of-state mother-in-law for how she coped thirty years ago as a mother of newborns. I cried while singing lullabies, walking Zoe around and around the dining room table trying to get her to sleep, wishing my mother was there to take my baby in her arms. I made it through nearly nine months of working at home while caring for Zoe. Then her long daily naps became grew shorter as she began to crawl and sit up. I quit my paid job and breathed a hugh sigh of relief.

Those tough years of nursing and changing diapers in the middle of the night are over. Zoe is now seven, with a five-year-old little sister called Lilah. I have not gone back to a paid job. I am not working on a career, or building my resume. I mother, full-time. I do not neglect my own interests or needs. Time for those has slowly returned as my girls have gained independence. I exercise, I write, I read, I take classes and participate in groups who do these things. I make sure I have plenty of grown-up time. I put a lot of time and energy into getting healthy food for my family. I work hard at renovating and rescuing our old house. I have planted a lot of flowers and trees around this house. I take my girls to all kinds of places—forests, libraries, museums, farms, oceans, parks—and I truly enjoy spending time with them; they are thoughtful, fun people. I read, draw, play, joke, scream, sing, run, dance and snuggle with them. I tell them stories about the grandmother they will never meet. I breathe them in and let them see me cry.

I think my mother would be proud.