Motherhood Moments
NEW Look Son, No Hands
With a controller in one hand and a spindly book of directions in the other, I’d spent the better part of Saturday morning failing to unlock the secrets of motion-controlled video games. Touted as a great way to infuse aerobic exercise into our daily routine, I’d bought the system for my husband, Nick’s birthday so we could bowl, river raft or score a goal in the comfort of our home.
I pushed every button and highlighted every TV screen option. No luck. Nick tried to help, but we both grew up in the generation that thought Pong and Space Invaders were futuristic. As I coached, Nick stood in front of the system’s motion-detector, resembling an amateur airman flagging down planes. He swung his right arm up, then his left arm out. He might have gotten a bit of a workout, but none of his gyrations got the console to perform.
As a last resort, we hollered upstairs for our son Seth’s help. Several minutes later, he joined us in the familyroom and surveyed the situation. “You and dad are going to have to learn how to operate these things by yourselves,” he said. “I’m not going to live here forever you know.” He shrugged, then left to play basketball with his friends.
NEW Y Lines of Communication
It’s Seth’s turn to take out the trash. Being 16, he often needs reminding. I thought about waiting until he notices that the can is overflowing and hope he’ll take it out on his own. But I’m a realist. The price of gas will dip below $3 before that happens. I could write a note and tape it on the refrigerator door. He’ll get hungry, eventually. Or I could walk up stairs to his room where he’s on his computer and ask him face-to-face, but that’s so 1970s.
I’m sure I’d get a quicker response if I used one of the electronic innovations he’s familiar with. But I’m slow to change. Not that I’m against progress or anything. I cheered when the NBC peacock appeared in living color instead of black-and-white. I switched to music recorded on CDs instead of cassettes. I happily turned in my rotary dial phone for one with a keypad. Still, I’m leery when it comes to using cyberspace gizmos to communicate with my Generation Y children. If it weren’t for Shawn, Jake and Seth, I could pretty much avoid these instantaneous transmitters of information altogether.
NEW Bumping Into the Message
My college-age son, Jake, home for spring break, took his truck in for routine maintenance, leaving him without wheels for the afternoon. So I offered him the use of my car for the day. I was surprised when he opted to walk to his destination instead of grabbing the keys and hopping into my 1997 Mercury Villager.
Sure, it’s not a chick magnet, but it would get him safely from point A to point B. I’ll admit to its tattered history as a part-time meal wagon. The smudges, spots and grease stains imbedded in the fabric seats and carpet are remnants of Taco Tuesdays, sugar donuts and bags of burgers and fries. It doesn’t rack up the style points. There’s no sunroof. The dashboard houses a cassette, not a CD player, the rear air conditioning doesn’t work and sometimes the auto door lock gets confused and unlocks itself. This minivan isn’t sleek, shiny or fast, but for the past 14 years, it’s been reliable, faithful and functional -- just like me.
Mom, Put Your Oxygen Mask On First
The flight attendant stood at the front of the cabin pointing to features on the aircraft as we readied for take off. She added a visual element to the humdrum voice coming from the speakers reminding passengers to fasten their seatbelts, turn off any electronics and where to locate the nearest emergency exit.
This was my first solo flight as a mom. My 8-month-old son and I were on our way to visit Sadye, my sister. Shawn, still young enough not to require his own seat, was perched on my lap for the 80-minute journey from San Diego to Sacramento.
YCaution: Mom At Work
I had stepped on Thomas and Percy -- tank engines from my 4-year-old son’s toy train set -- for the fifth time. Seth had been playing with his miniatures most of the afternoon, while nearby, I worked on my article about children at risk. We shared the cozy familyroom workspace that now was littered with diesel engines named Mavis and Derek, railroad tracks, Harold the helicopter and several other character trains from his favorite TV show. My deadline was in two days and I still needed to interview a child welfare judge from the U.S. District Court. While waiting for him to return my early morning call, I’d spent my day researching facts, checking sources, folding the laundry and refereeing disagreements.
It was 6:30 now -- well past normal business hours. I needed to change from part-time investigative reporter to my more familiar role of cook-organizer-teacher-disciplinarian. It was time to start dinner, pack lunches and help my 13-year-old son, Shawn, with his science project. Nick, my husband, would be home soon to take some of the pressure off.
Look Mom, Nine Cavities!
What started out as a routine dental check-up with my then 4-year-old son, Seth, ended up as a parenting wake-up call. In a matter of mere minutes, my preschooler with a heart-melting smile had transformed into a kid with nine cavities. Nine – that’s one for every player position on a baseball field. I felt my supermom smile turn into a frown as our dentist broke the bad news to me.
"This little boy isn’t taking care of his teeth," Dr. H said. His glare translated to: "Mom, you’re not doing your job." This is the same Dr. H. I’ve entrusted my own pearly whites to since I was 17. The same dentist who pulled out my wisdom teeth, welcomed my husband, Nick, as a new patient and then each of my boys as they reached the age when their teeth required the care of a professional.
MOM = Made of Money
It happened in a flash at a mall not far from my home. The realization that I had become one of those mothers – a woman who indulges her young with too much, wanting to make sure they have everything. Unwittingly, I was becoming the kind of mother whose kids aren’t prepared for adulthood.
The truth hit me like two weeks’ worth of dirty clothes, tumbling down my laundry chute. Somewhere along the line, while I was performing day-to-day mothering duties, my three sons, Shawn, Jake and Seth, grew up thinking that MOM stood for Made of Money. I’m not sure when this happened, but I knew how. It wasn’t such a stretch for my kids to equate MOM with money. Nowadays, everything is labeled with an acronym. Kids watch DVDs, teams play OT and we use the ATM. It was a natural progression for MOM to mean Made of Money.
Have Kids. Gotta Travel.
I wave at the navy blue Honda Civic from the driver’s seat of my green Mercury Villager. I’m not sure if it’s Teresa, Connie or Melanie, but I know that the car is familiar. So I wave after dropping my son, Seth, off at school. It’s quite possible that I don’t know the driver of the car, but she waves back anyway. It’s early in the day. I’m still shaking off sleep when I realize that I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet. It’s a good thing that my morning socializing takes place from behind a steering wheel.
Memo From a Team Mom
It’s the start of another season. Baseball, soccer, football, basketball, it doesn’t matter. I’m the mother of three sons, so some sport is always being played. I dust off my boys’ cleats, find their gloves and locate the air pump. A new season, a fresh start. And with the beginning of every sport comes new opportunity – even for parents. A chance to volunteer to be the team mom.
YFor the Love of Leftovers
“All we ever eat is leftovers!” — the Fadden brothers, in search of food
My sons insist that leftovers are the only food served in our house. Over the years, this rally cry for action from Shawn, Jake and Seth usually amounts to a request for fast food. This day, I unwisely challenge their assertion.
“You have to have a home-cooked meal in order for the leftovers to exist,” I insist. “That’s why they call them left-overs. They’re Left Over!”
“Mother U R the GR8ST”
I will probably never be named Mother of the Year and that’s OK with me. I’m happiest when I am praised, even for a moment, by one of my three sons. Kudos from my trio of boys don’t emerge from solving society’s problems. I haven’t unearthed a software solution to block spam, a plan to lower the price of gas or even an easy way to remove Orange Blast Gatorade stains from the front of baseball uniforms. You won’t see my name listed alongside great women like Clara Barton, Mother Teresa or Marie Curie. But I am remembered by my boys for less notable, but infinitely more important reasons. For example, over the years, I’ve heard: “Mom, you’re awesome.” (Shawn, when I found his missing soccer cleats.) “Claire, you’re clutch (Jake, after having his sweatshirt mended.) or “Mom, you rock!” (any of them upon discovering a full bag of peanut butter M&Ms in the pantry). The highlight, though, was the day my 12-year-old, Seth, declared me the greatest!
YMotherhood’s Lesson Plan (or Learn-As-You-Go Parenting)
Nick and I had been married about a year and a half. We were still getting used to the idea of being Mr. and Mrs., sharing decisions like picking out a couch and learning to stay on a budget. He worked as a restaurant manager and I was finishing up my BS in Journalism at San Diego State. Courses like “Libel Law & the Media” and “Writing for Publication” filled my mind and my time. That’s when it first hit. A thick sensation in the bottom of my stomach. At first I thought it was the flu. The symptoms started slowly, just nipped at me the first couple mornings, but by the end of the week, I was in bed, cradling a bucket under my head. Not even dry toast was my friend.
A Mother’s Malady
I’m sick. Unless you’re a teen-ager I’ve given birth to though, you might not notice. There’s no cough, I don’t have a rash and I’m not the one in pain. There’s no remedy to treat the symptoms and my doctor can’t give me a prescription. Only time will cure my malady.
Since I’ve been a mom, I’ve been afflicted with this condition twice before — once when Shawn was about 13 and then some four years later, coincidentally when Jake was 13. The onset of this disorder, which I’ve termed High School Parentitis (HSP), only strikes adults while their children are teens. It’s more commonly seen in women, but men are also affected. Fortunately this temporary parental disorder seems to diminish greatly once your child reaches adulthood. It disappears all together when they become parents.
YBloopers, Blunders and Other Memorable Moments from the Motherhood Hall of Shame
No woman truly appreciates her mom until she’s a mother herself. I didn’t realize how wise and patient my mother was until I was a grown woman, facing my own set of pint-sized critics. From my trio of boys, I’ve been the target of so many judgmental eye rolls that you’d think Shawn, Jake and Seth’s eyes would be sore.
YMomisms: A Mother’s Words of Advice
My sons, Shawn, Jake and Seth, will never be mothers. They’ll never know firsthand the joys of morning sickness, labor and delivery. Hopefully, one day they will become parents, but the closest they’ll get is to be a dad. And in my world, fatherhood is light years away from motherhood.
Sure, dads teach their children neat stuff like how to hit a ball off a tee, draw to an inside straight or burp out the National Anthem. But it’s mom who imparts the meaningful wisdom, the stuff that changes lives. Moms do more than teach you how to sew on a button or make a hard-boiled egg. Our advice is a mixture of the practical (check for TP before you sit down), the emotional (laugh some everyday) and the spiritual (what goes around, comes around).
