I've seen the cartoon showing the different stages we supposedly go through with our moms--the toddler's constant clinginess; the teenage rebellion; recognition somewhere in our 20's that mom is smarter than we thought; realization that mom won't always be there; and wishing there was a telephone line to heaven. It's spot on from the child's perspective, at least in most cases. I didn't rebel in the traditional sense, though asking to wear an Easter suit at age 8 instead of ruffles was a risky move. But I'm positive that I was able to turn the word "mom" into a four syllable protest when I was about 13.
Now that I'm a mom, however, I can recognize the phases of motherhood a bit more clearly. It's not so much that I appreciate my mom more now (I do), it's the recognition that moms are these incredible beings who morph seamlessly to become exactly what their children need at exactly the right time. For some, the moms for the different chapters of life are different people. Some lose their moms far too early, whether by death or more complicated emotional losses. My hope for them is they find their "moms" for every season of life--whether in one person or several.
I'm lucky. My mom is one person. Some of you know her, and you know she's Superwoman. But as her daughter, I'm only now able to appreciate that she was exactly who I needed her to be in every chapter of my life.
Obviously, I don't remember my diaper days. (My children might remember their diaper days--potty training has been a slow transition, sigh.) But now I know that a baby needs his mommy to be the center of his universe, his moon, his stars, and everything in between. Mommy is the snuggler, the rocker, the only one who knows exactly where to tickle behind his ears to induce a much needed nap. For those fleeting baby days, mommy is everything, compressed into one sleep deprived, unshowered, entirely exhausted being.
For toddlers, mommy is the best friend, the purveyor of all things fun and interesting, the alphabet teacher, the potty trainer, and the timeout setter. Only mommy knows the just right ratio of chocolate to milk, and only mommy can sing "Twinkle Star's" three (three!) verses.
Somehow, after toddlerhood, mommies know tiny nuances that help preschoolers bridge the gap between babyhood and childhood. Mommies know to ask how the school day was. They know how to talk to other preschool friends. Mommies stay up late nights learning the names of 137 little British engines, to keep the conversation flowing.
Somewhere around kindergarten, my mom became more than the snuggler and meal provider. She was the coolest mom
ever. In second grade, she dressed as a witch for our Halloween party and made punch--in a bowl! She was the Bluebird leader who helped us win the citywide Campfire art fair with a landscape made from drier lint (purple sweatpants make some beautiful lint.). She made me a rainbow striped dress for school and let me wear a sequined Thriller t-shirt for the first day of first grade (at a little Lutheran school--how times have changed!). She made me learn my multiplication tables even though both of us would much rather be reading about Ramona Quimby (though I now suspect she might have preferred other literature on occasion). On top of all of that? She was (and is) gorgeous--long blonde hair, green eyes, a smile for miles, and the
best perfume--not just for special occasions. She was my pack horse toting lawn chairs, coolers, overnight bags, and thousands of towels all over the state for swim meets. She made nice with the other swim team moms and organized more than her fair share of potluck dinners.
She was exactly what I needed. And it wasn't glamorous.
Then puberty hit. Early. And ugly. My skin was bad; my teeth were worse. I was bigger than all of the boys in my 6th grade class. I had a
bosom--and I was 11. Mom knew. She bought me a pair of designer jeans because all of the other girls had them. She curled my bangs and sprayed 'em high. She packed a red patent purse with feminine products. She talked to me about boys and girls. She made sure I knew that girls were mean to me because they were jealous of my new figure (they weren't); because I was too pretty (I wasn't); and because I was too smart (smart mouthed, more likely). She was my confidant and friend. She listened to my preteen drama; watched the preteen movies; and didn't tell anyone that I was playing with baby dolls at the same time I was wearing my first bra.
It was a rough couple of years. And mom was exactly what I needed.
Then came 7th grade. It was hideous. Horrible. Life altering, and not in a good way. I had to leave my little Lutheran school for the free-for-all that was junior high. There is nothing meaner than a 13 year old girl, and I was facing a whole school of new ones. My bestie went to the other junior high. So did every other person I'd grown up with. Mom became my one defender. My spokesman. My white knight in an olive green circle skirt. She fought the system and got me transferred.
She was exactly what I needed.
I never hated my mom or claimed to hate my mom like a lot of teenage girls. She respected my privacy, my sense of style, and my opinions. She knew my limits and pushed the good ones. She made me practice my violin. She embraced my teenage rebellion. I had the coolest skirts made out of neckties, and once, she drove me clear to Wichita just to try on a black knit catsuit that we both immediately decided was a very bad idea. But she let me try it on. My junior prom dress was a designer replica that was better than the real thing--in part because the seam allowances with just enough for last minute alterations when we realized that my swimmer's thighs were a wee bit, ahem, stronger than we'd realized. She encouraged me to meet boys but didn't judge when I much preferred to hang out with my besties. I made up curfews and rules like "I can only go on a date on Saturday night, not Friday." She played along. My friends thought she was horribly strict, but really, the rules weren't hers. I just much preferred to sit in her bedroom floor on a Friday night while she painted my nails. Saturdays were ours. We visited her bestie, and I listened to them gossip only as true friends can. We split lunch at a local grill. We cruised in her convertible--which she let me drive, because, as I may have mentioned, she is the
best mom ever.
She was exactly what I needed.
In college, she made sure my dorm room was a place I could call home (though I called home every single night). She (and dad--more on him later, 'cause he's deserving of his own post) came to every concert and every show--even the operas. She did my laundry; and we folded it sitting on her bed visiting about nothing and everything. She cooked every Sunday and sent me back loaded for the week because the cafeteria was scary.
She was exactly what I needed.
Mom was my wedding planner supreme. She handled a million details and made sure that I had the princess day every girl dreams of all while I studied for the bar exam.
She was exactly what I needed.
And now? My mom is my best friend. Obviously. She's incredible. But now? She's still exactly what I need. She loves my babies. She visits and does my laundry so that I can be the snuggler and spend hours learning the names of the little British engines. She knows when I've reached the end of my mommy rope and takes the little darlings out of my sight for an hour or so. She babysits. When the kids are barfing. And so am I. Did you know that she drove 100 miles just to bring me Gigi's homemade (of course) Halloween costume, only to turn around two hours later so that she could get back home for another trip? At the minimum, I owe this woman an oil change. But seriously, how do you ever say thank you to a mom? Moms are amazing. They not only wear a hundred hats, they know which hat to wear during which year at what event.
I only hope that I manage my closet full of mommy hats as well as my mom has--because she's still managing to be exactly what I need.
