I Am the Mom

While waiting at the check-out line at a local store, my children and I were approached by a small child who began asking us who we were. After satisfying herself concerning our names, she turned to me and with her head cocked to one side said, “Where's your Mom?” I tried not to laugh when I answered and said “I am the Mom, and these are my children.” She seemed OK with that and wandered off. But the longer I thought about it the more it bothered me. It was almost as though the weight of the world had landed on me when I said those words: I am the Mom.

Mother's Day is sometimes spent in reverencing Mothers, a custom with which I am not very comfortable, because it frequently becomes a mushy sort of hallowing of Mothers in general and doesn't really get at the heart of the matter, which is that Mothers are just girls who had children, who learned from their mistakes about what worked and what didn't, and who probably never felt holy or wonderful, especially when doing the work of a Mother. Her time is spent doing so many unholy things that she wonders that she isn't struck by lightening or something.

For instance, too much of a Mother's time is spent being afraid. Afraid for your life, for one thing, like when you sit on the hospital bed having a baby and the doctor hasn't shown up yet and the nurse has just left. Afraid for your children, for another, like when you come home from a short trip to the store and your two-year-old is on the roof. Afraid that you won't be able to afford all the little things your children will need, like braces, and a college education. Afraid that your children will somehow not measure up to the standard your in-laws have set for them. Afraid they will get involved with dangerous things or people. Afraid that you might be one of those dangerous people, like when they take your car on a date and come back with the insurance agent.

Too much of a Mother's time is spent being a judge. Nothing could have prepared me for the continuous stream of legal battles I face on a daily basis as a Mother. From small claims disputes to major crimes against humanity, my little court has taught me more about human nature, crime and punishment than any library of law books could have. You have to get used to being the one who says no, the one who does things that no one else will do, the decider of every difficult question from curfew to curling irons. And this aspect of Motherhood is extremely unromantic and un-wonderful.

Too much of a Mother's time is spent doing the worst jobs on the planet. You might think that changing a diaper is relatively easy, and, taken by itself, it might be. But, try changing that diaper when you have had two hours of sleep, your husband is late coming home, dinner isn't ready, you are hungry, and the baby has a diaper rash. Then, flu season comes every year bringing the age-old job of cleaning up the unspeakable messes, even when you are sick yourself. Laundry, dishes, floors, toilets, and of course, crayon on the walls, all must be tackled by a Mother while operating on little sleep, rushed meals and the constant barrage of either crying or whining.

Motherhood is a very practical, homely, dirty-work. From wiping nose to cleaning toes, there is just about nothing glamorous or glorious about it. So, in that way, I guess, Motherhood is like war. It's hard, it hurts, and it doesn't go away. But, like war, whenever anyone is willing to risk their life in the trenches, getting dirty, losing sleep, getting hurt, maybe even dying in behalf of someone else, we call them a hero, because we instinctively know that giving of one's self for the life and good of others is the highest and best thing you can do. But from a soldier's point of view, war is hell. Like a Mother, he forgets that he was saving his family, and giving 'the last full measure of devotion' when he put his life on the line. So, maybe we should celebrate Mother's Day on Veterans Day. I think we'd feel more at home.