Mothering

Memories of our own mothers flood over us on Mother’s Day. Unconditional love, teaching, mentoring and patience is what we like to remember. We don’t have to be mothers to “mother” someone or something. One of my powerful memories is mothering a fledgling that Gregory and I found in our yard one morning. We actually found 3, but one got away and one died in the heat of a July summer. We did manage to feed Laurel the right food after failing a few times. With the help and ingenuity of my father who just happened to be visiting us — Laurel learned to fly under his love and patience. There are no perfect ways to take on this challenge.

New life demands sleepless nights whether it is for a bird or a baby. Tiny creatures do not come with instructions, but we quickly adapt to their needs. In Dutchess County one night I saw a baby fawn hobble across the road in front of me. The mom leapt away, depositing her child in the grassy ditch in the rain while she went off to run errands. I was horrified and worried, but I did not touch or get close to the tiny fawn. Later that night the mom returned to pick up her baby and resume their life together. Lesson learned “Don’t mess with the force of mothering.”

One of my most meaningful times with my mother was on Mother’s Day–May 11, 2014. She had been ill and was now home from the hospital. Spending time with her was special for me. She was happy, the house was so comfortable and meals were prepared by parishioners and arrived like clockwork. We lounged, probably watched some sports, but we also talked about things that were important to us. Many years ago I had become an Episcopalian and that was a source of irritation for her. I told her that in the long run we shared the same beliefs. The big difference was the way we worshipped– the liturgy. Episcopal prayers were written but they were still prayers.

She was also bothered by my Brown University graduate degree. How could they have accepted me into a Ph.D. program and abandoned me at the M.A.? Simply put, I did not meet the requirements. She had paid my way to go to graduate school, so I felt a particular burden in disappointing her. Like the fawn’s mother I quietly dropped unwanted questions in the ditch by the side of the road.

For these moments my mother was not working. She always worked hard cooking and caring for the house and finances and rising early for the BBC and her time alone. My mother enjoyed the deep inner calm of a woman who had waited a long time for this moment. It all happened on Mother’s Day.

( Mom and Tucker, 2004, Photo taken by my youngest sister Carolie and a gift for us this Mother’s Day.)