Recycling = good, right?
Better for the environment, better for our wallets, better for our conscience.
Bad for blogs.
I'm posting another column I wrote for Valley Parent, the Valley News' parenting magazine. It ran on Friday, May 6 -- it's a little homage to my wonderful mother.
Unfortunate thing is, it's sort of lame and doesn't do her justice. Like anything birthed from a creative spark, the work is never done. As soon as I filed it I thought, "Christ, well, that was not even close to my best work." My apologies to my husband, the editor of Valley Parent, and all the, well, Valley parents who read it. And to you, dear reader, too. But mom's still in town and I have to do some reporting for a freelance assignment in about a half hour so it's crunch time.
Without further ado, behold mediocrity (ironic, given it's about a sensational woman).
***
Mother's Love Never Sleeps
A 3 a.m. wake-up call was an unlikely time for such a revelation.
I managed to open one fatigued eye and stumble out of bed toward my crying baby daughter’s room. It wasn’t so much a cry as it was a bellow.
“I’m boooooored,” she howled in her indecipherable infant gurgles. “Mom, come get me!”
Mom was tired -- I’m talking, real tired -- and not wild about this new trend of mid-night wakings after she had established a blessedly dependable sleep-through-the-night routine. Nevertheless, I ambled in and leaned over her crib, my daughter’s tiny smiling face dimly illuminated by a nearby nightlight. She kicked her little legs and let out a delighted squeal.
“WELL, HELLO JUNIE!” I erupted, jaw aching from smiling so hard. “I MISSED YOU!”
This unbridled enthusiasm, a greeting befitting a homecoming after days of separation rather than a couple hours of fitful sleep, was how it dawned on me.
I was becoming my mother.
Friends of mine have long said that they’ve had similar “a ha!” moments, only more appropriately categorized as “oh no!” moments – usually noticed when barking orders at a child, or seeing their reflection in the mirror after a particularly sensible haircut.
My realization, to my dear mother’s credit, was made after an expression of joy. Yes, I have a good one.
My mom had four children, pretty spread out in age, in what must have been an exhausting 30 straight years of parenting with a child under her and my dad’s roof. Yet regardless of where her day was headed, or whatever sullen phase we found ourselves in, the greeting was steadfast: “HI SWEETIE!”
So rare were her moments of dispassionate parenting that they were the sure-fire signs that she was either sick or we had done something seriously naughty.
My little brother drawing on the dining room walls with purple Magic Marker comes to mind. This happened when supposedly under the watchful eye of my older brother, who was holed up in his bedroom listening to music during wee Rembrandt’s stroke of creative genius. I don’t recall what made my mother angrier – the fresco of Skeletor on her white walls, or my older brother’s dirty dish of Chef Boyardee meat ravioli dumped in the sink on that Good Friday 25 years ago.
A mother’s love – a widely bandied about concept of unfettered worry, unconditional devotion and blinding adoration. They say that until you parent a child, you just don’t get it. Now that I’m a mother I think about my own mother’s love quite a bit, especially the blind adoration part, and usually while I’m up all night worrying.
My mom recently told me she recalled walking through our hometown with me at an awkward 12 or 13 years of age, and her getting legitimately angry that no one was stopping her on the street to tell her how cute I was. These people must be out of their minds not to be fawning over my daughter, she thought.
Several years ago when my dad was putting together a movie about my life to show at my wedding, she saw some footage from that “cute” era.
“Now I get it,” she chuckled. Perspective showed her what unconditional love didn’t – giant crooked teeth, large, mismanaged hair and a questionable penchant for layering clothing.
“But I still think you were adorable,” she added.
My mother’s enthusiasm equaled gratitude, altruism and most of all, her having fun. I look at photos of her as a young new mom herself, her pretty face affixed in a perma-grin and eyes awash in joy at the wriggling miracle in front of her. Sure there’s fatigue there, perhaps a festering diaper sitting just out of frame, but there’s such happiness. And lots of it.
It’s the face I’ve looked at my whole life.
As I scooped up my daughter, cooing a little victory hymn, I yawned amid my kissing spree on her warm cheek. She reached up and brushed her small hand across my mouth and smiled, giving me her little baby nod of approval.
“Your mama loves every second she spends with you,” I whispered to June.
Heck, I learned from the best.
