As I See It / May 2007

Just the Same, Only Different

Much like kaleidoscopes, mothers are the fixed point through which a constantly changing landscape is viewed. Despite the thousands of possible perspectives and varying lights that mothers may be seen in, children see their own mother in the same way for life. No matter how she grows or changes, and most mothers start out young, she will remain not just a constant, but a very specific constant, with closely held, carefully prescribed parameters, in the eyes of her children.

Mother’s Day is the annual marker in a field of richly colored, deeply textured memories. The places and players vary from time to time, but Mother, whether she spends her days arranging mergers, play dates or bridge games, abides in a singularly pristine state. It’s quite common for grown children, after decades of births, deaths, celebrations and calamities, to notice with surprise that their mother is suddenly showing signs of age. There is no cream on the market as effective as motherhood in stopping the visible signs of passing years, at least in her children’s eyes.

It is a small gift, really, in exchange for fulfillment of an overwhelming undertaking, for carrying and bearing a child, for the pain and the fear, for the small and great tragedies, for the high hopes and enormous responsibility for another human being. It is the slightest compensation for a job with no pay, no days off, no statute of limitations for mistakes and no early retirement. No one gets a plaque for doing well.

A woman’s collection of Mother’s Days gathered through her tenure are only a slim volume of tribute in the encyclopedic experience that makes up motherhood. Under all the cards, flowers and Sunday buffets, it is a collective recognition of the love that life is built upon. The love a mother gives her children is fundamental to their self-respect and self-confidence. It colors every other relationship. Children launched into the world without the light of a mother’s love never feel quite safe or quit sure of themselves.

Women select their mates and choose their friends, but take what is handed to them in the delivery room, squalling and messy, without hesitation. The surprising grasp of a tiny fist spreads to an enduring squeeze on the heart. A mother’s careful count of fingers and toes is only the first of a million times she will seek reassurance that her child is all right.

But, her state of never-changing grace is chiseled in the years long after birth. It is layered with nights of fever, days of carpools, nose bleeds, broken arms, ear aches, swollen tonsils. It is etched by fear of evil and accidents, and the overwhelming vulnerability of small bodies. It is carefully restored with every skinned knee, every broken heart that needed mending. It is tempered by the fury of teenage rebellion, sweetened by candied kisses. It is burnished with aching fatigue and agonizing decisions, polished by pride.

For every child that is hurt, there is a mother who feels pain. For every child that grows up a failure, there is a mother who sees only her own. For every child that dies, there is a mother for whom time does not heal all wounds.

Children grow up, but it doesn’t make them less vulnerable. Accidents happen. Disease strikes. A gunman comes on campus. There is no recovery for a mother who has lost her child. There is no child who doesn’t understand that.

It is amazing so many women choose to be mothers. They may be artists, teachers or bookkeepers, doctors or presidents, but at home they are mothers. And, even at work, the mother gear is always slightly engaged, running in the background, an automatic program that can’t be turned off. No matter what she does for a living, her job of raising children is never ending, the risks ever present, the payoff, uncertain. But, the reward is profound and apparently, enough. It is written in crayon, paint and pencil, carried in flowers and phone calls, as children of every age say, to the face and figure that abides in their heart, “I love you, Mom.” PL

 

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