Motherhood, The Second OldestProfession (6 page)

What kind of a mother would...

die and not take you with her?

Julie

Had Julie not been the deceased, it was a funeral she would have loved.

The minister, in his desperate struggle for an analogy of comfort, said to her three sons sitting rigid in the front row, “Think of your mother as the spirit leaving the body. The shell is here, but the nut is gone.”

The organist forgot the music and the only song she knew by heart was “Days of Wine and Roses.”

And her middle son, Steve, flew in from school with only the shoes on his feet ... a pair of red, white, and blue Adidas with stars that glowed in the dark, which he wore with a three-piece brown suit.

It was hard to believe Julie was dead at forty-eight, the victim of a “kind” cancer that acts quickly and with accuracy.

Chuck, the eldest, had been in his apartment when his grandmother called with the news. All he had been told until then was that his mother had been “a little tired lately.”

She had been so proud of her son, “the television mogul.” Actually, he was a prop man for a sitcom, but his degree had been in cinema and he spoke the language.

Every time they were together, he couldn't resist showing off. “What movies have you seen lately. Mom?”

julie: “ 'The Seduction of Miss Marple' and I loved it . . .”

chuck: “It missed making a statement.”

julie: "Up to a point. Of course, the one I really liked was

'Trilogy: Blood, Sex, and Violence.' It was breathtakingly ..."

chuck: “Stargins had a concept. It just didn't work.”

julie: "Dull. You're absolutely right. I thought 'Slime' was really

gross ..."

chuck: “Beautiful, sensitive film.”

julie: “... grossed a million and was worth every penny.”

How could he have been such a superior jerk? Now it was too late to say he was sorry. He had had no right to put her down. He fingered the letter in his pocket addressed to him in his mother's hand and opened it slowly. It was her last message to him. He unfolded the pages carefully as if to savor them.

Dearest Chuck:

Since this letter is for no one's eyes but yours, lean tell you that I always loved you best.

Maybe it was because you were the first miracle to stir inside me. The first hint of my immortality.

You were a part of the lean years for your father and me ... the part that brought laughter to poverty, warmth to cold, success to failures.

You were the original model. There would be others who would come after you who might blow bigger air bubbles, burp louder, talk earlier, walk faster, ©r “go potty” sooner, but you did it first.

You may have suffered a bit from. our inexperience with open pins, clumsy baths, and overprotection, but you got something better. You got our patience, our stamina, and our youth.

You got the part of us that was the best we had to give. Our struggle and our triumph over it. You were Hamburger Helper. You were redeeming bottles for movies. You were fresh grandparents who woke you up when you were asleep to rock you to sleep. You were six volumes of baby pictures and a set of encyclopedias. You were house calls for gas pains. You were strained lamb. You were the beginning. You were wanted and you were loved.

Mama

Chuck folded the letter quickly as Steve slid in beside him.

Did you get a pen knife with those?" he snapped, nodding toward the red, white, and blue jogging shoes.

“No, a Frisbee.”

Steve took a deep breath and tried to focus anywhere but on his brothers. He hadn't been able to look at Chuck since he had read the letter his mother sent him. He had never known she had felt that way about him or even why.

Steve had worked on being a maverick. Every time he screwed up, his mom always took him aside and said they understood, but they didn't. Not really. A couple of years ago, they took his other brother Tim to visit Chuck at school for a weekend and left him in charge of the house.

Why couldn't she have blown up like any other mother would have? Instead, the night they returned, she said, “Want to tell me what happened?”

“What makes you think anything happened?” he asked.

“The thirty neighbors standing around in their night-clothes watching three police cruisers parked on our front lawn and the dog that is wearing my underwear. A lucky guess.”

“I had a party.”

“According to the police report you had a 746.”

“What's a 746?”

“I'll read it to you. 'Blocking off street for a parade without permission. Illegal parking of two Porta-Johns on a carport, holding an assistant principal against his will, and unlawful assembly of 150 people in a house built as a single family dwelling.' ”

Why had he been so stupid? All he had to say was “I'm sorry” and she'd have forgiven him, but he couldn't say it. Now he'd never get the chance. He felt the letter. It was still there. How could she have known him so well?

Dearest Steve:

You must have suspected, but I will say it anyway. I have always loved, you best.

You drew such a stupid spot in the family and instead of caving in, you became all the stronger for it. How I did admire your fire, your independence, and your impatience. You may have worn faded, played with chipped toys, and never in your life did anything first, but you rose above it.

You are the child we relaxed with and enjoyed. The one who made us realize that a dog could kiss you on the mouth and you wouldn't die from it. If you missed a nap, you wouldn't get sick. If you sucked on a pacifier until age two, your teeth wouldn't grow in a circle.

You were a part of our busy, ambitious years. The time when priorities and values can get so mixed up. But you reminded us of what we were all about and put us back on course when we strayed.

You were the sibling that unseated the only child. You were spaghetti and meatballs at eight months. You were checking accounts written down to twenty-seven cents. You were shared birthdays. You were arguments over bills. You were the new house we couldn't afford. You were staying home on Saturday nights. You took us away from tedium, rescued us from boredom, and stimulated us with your zest for life.

You were the constancy and were loved.

Mama

Tim stared at his brothers sitting with him in the pew. His suit was tight. At fourteen, it didn't take him long to outgrow anything.

He felt sorry for his brothers. They had missed a part of their mother that only he knew. When they lived at home, she gave and they took. For the last year Tim gave and she was helpless to do anything but accept. Thank goodness he had had that year to make up for all the grief he had given her.

He had hated being the “baby.” He had hated the comparisons, the loneliness, the protectiveness, the references to “our second family.” He lived in a house where all his parents did was diet and watch animal documentaries.

The only time he saw sugar was when his brothers came home for a visit. Then there was a lot of talk about “being a family again.” What did they think he was? A computer?

His brothers had had it all. A father who played touch football after dinner. A grandma who bought them digital watches for their 10th birthdays before she got “practical.” A mother who had been too busy to alphabetize their baseball cards and put them in files.

Over the past year, they had talked out all the resentment inside him. The letter his mother had left said it all.

Dearest Tim:

A mother is not supposed to have favorites, but I have always loved, you best.

Just when your father and I thought youth had left our lives, you came along to remind us we had something left to give. You darkened our hair, quickened our steps, squared our shoulders, restored our vision, revived our humor.

You were our second chance to enjoy a miracle from God.

You grew so fast in such a short time—or maybe it was that we didn't want to think about time. You fell heir to broken baseball bats, trains that wouldn't run, a refrigerator full of yogurt, midlife crises, and a baby book with nothing in it but a recipe for Apple Brown Betty.

You also fell heir to the one thing we never counted on: our mortality.

With you, we discarded the rules and experienced what a baby is all about. It was like seeing one for the very first time. It's a love one cannot describe.

I have loved you for your thirty- flve-year-old patience, your ninety-year-old compassion, and your fifby-year-old practicality, but mostly, I love the fourteen-year-old boy who wore them awkwardly, but proudly.

You were the culmination and were loved.

Mama

As the last strains of “Days of Wine and Roses” faded, two women left from the back of the church.

“Didn't it just tear your heart out to see those young boys of hers without a mother?”

The other woman leaned closer and whispered, “I heard the medical bills took all they had. She didn't leave those boys a thing.”

The Special Mother

Most women become mothers by accident, some by choice, a few by social pressures, and a couple by habit.

This year, nearly 100,000 women will become mothers of handicapped children. Did you ever wonder how mothers of handicapped children are chosen?

Somehow, I visualize God hovering over Earth selecting His instruments for propagation with great care and deliberation. As He observes, He instructs His angels to make notes in a giant ledger.

"Armstrong, Beth, son. Patron saint, Matthew.

"Forest, Marjorie, daughter. Patron saint, Cecilia.

“Rutledge, Carrie, twins. Patron saint . . . give her Gerard. He's used to profanity.”

Finally, He passes a name to an angel and smiles, “Give her a handicapped child.”

The angel is curious. “Why this one, God? She's so happy.”

“Exactly,” smiles God. “Could I give a handicapped child a mother who does not know laughter? That would be cruel.”

“But does she have patience?” asks the angel.

"I don't want her to have too much patience, or she will drown in a sea of self-pity and despair. Once the shock and resentment wear off, she'll handle it.

“I watched her today. She has that sense of self and independence that are so rare and so necessary in a mother. You see, the child I'm going to give her has his own world. She has to make it live in her world and that's not going to be easy.”

“But Lord, I don't think she even believes in you.”

God smiles. “No matter, I can fix that. This one is perfect. She has just enough selfishness.”

The angel gasps. “Selfishness? Is that a virtue?”

God nods. "If she can't separate herself from the child occasionally, she'll never survive. Yes, here is a woman whom I will bless with a child less than perfect. She doesn't realize it yet, but she is to be envied.

"She will never take for granted a spoken word. She will never consider a step ordinary. When her child says 'Momma' for the first time, she will be witness to a miracle and know it. When she describes a tree or a sunset to her blind child, she will see it as few people ever see my creations.

“I will permit her to see clearly the things I see— ignorance, cruelty, prejudice—and allow her to rise above them. She will never be alone. I will be at her side every minute of every day of her life because she is doing my work as surely as she is here by my side.”

“And what about her patron saint?” asks the angel, his pen poised in mid-air.

God smiles. “A mirror will suffice.”

What kind of a mother would...

get a sitter and go bowling on Mother's Day?

Ginny

The moment the dog started barking Ginny knew her sister was coming.

In seven years, he had tried without success to sink his teeth into her thighs, but Peggy's thighs were just too ambitious, even for a full-grown Doberman.

“That dog should be owned by an attorney,” snapped Peggy. “You'd think in all these years he'd know I'm related. Where's B.J.?”

“Watching 'Days Of Our Lives.' ”

“What could a fourteen-month-old baby get out of that?” she said sharply.

“A cheap thrill,” sighed Ginny. “Nothing more.”

Peggy shot her sister a look of disapproval and knelt down before the small child, who was propped up in a seat. “Hello, B.J.,” she shouted. “It's Aunt Peggy. Remember Aunt Peggy? Of course you do.”

“You don't have to shout,” said Ginny. “He's retarded. Not deaf!”

Peggy slipped out of her coat. “You're not in another one of your moods, are you? You look tired around the eyes.”

“You want Brooke Shields? Come after lunch. Coffee?”

“Sure. Hold the sugar. I'm cutting back. Hey, did Sue call?”

“What's she selling?” snapped Ginny.

“What made you think she was selling anything? She just wants to invite us over for an evening of shallow conversation and a fattening dessert.”

“Sue never serves cashews without a reason. She's always hustling something—plants, plastics, jewelry. Call me cautious, but I'm always suspicious when someone invites me over for dessert and then says, 'Oh by the way, wear clean underwear and bring your checkbook.' ”

Peggy took her handbag off the table and hesitated. She didn't know if this was a good time or a bad time to give Ginny the column she had clipped from the newspaper on mothers of handicapped children.

She unfolded the column slowly. “Got something for you. As soon as I read it, I thought of you.”

“Don't tell me. I've been named Miss Congeniality in the Pillsbury Bake-Off.”

“I was going to save it for Mother's Day, but I think you need it today. Read it.”

Ginny took a deep breath and began to read in a singsong voice. “Most women become mothers by accident, some by choice, a few by social pressures, and a couple by habit.” Her head jerked up. “She forgot a bottle of Tequila in the back seat of a Toyota.” She continued reading. “This year nearly 100,000 women will become mothers of handicapped children. Did you ever wonder how mothers of handicapped children are chosen?”

Ginny put the column down. “I'm throwing up already.”

“Keep reading,” Peggy ordered.

Ginny's eyes moved quickly across the lines without emotion. When she had finished reading the article, she threw it on the table and said, “It's crap.”

“I thought you'd like it,” sighed Peggy.

“Does she have a retarded child? Then who gives her the right to tell me how to feel? I'm sick of being patronized. It's tough enough having to deal with all this without someone trying to put a halo on me.”

“I just thought ...”

“This is reality,” she interrupted. “Look at it. This is the only house on the block that will never have a swing set or a path across the yard. I'm a mother whose kid will never play in the toilet. Never tug at my leg when I'm on the phone. Never tear up my favorite magazine. Never run away from home stark naked. He'll never play patty-cake. Never pull my hair. He'll never even know my name.”

“It sounds like you could use a night out. I'll sit if you want me to.”

“I'm not looking for cute messages to stamp on tea towels. I'm madder than hell, don't you understand?”

“Don't you go to those meetings anymore?”

“What? Those group misery sessions where everyone sits around and tells you God never gives you more than you can handle? Well, I've got a flash. He overshot the field. I'm drowning, Peggy.”

“You have to get out more.”

“Don't you think I know that?” She sipped at her coffee. “I'm sorry, Peggy. It's just that I'm so scared. I can handle it now. I really can. Rob has been great. And Mom and Dad have been wonderful. Sometimes I forget how disappointed they must have been. But I'm worried about the long haul. I know what B.J. will be like ten years from now, but what will I be like? I don't like what bitterness does to people. I just want to be special to someone. Look, I didn't mean to take off, but every time I read something like this—”

“I understand,” said Peggy, getting up. “Listen, I only stopped by for a minute. Need anything?”

Ginny shook her head and saw her sister to the door. “I'm sorry. Come back when I'm a human being.” They put their arms around one another.

After Peggy left, Ginny looked at B.J. He sat quietly as “Days Of Our Lives” told a sensual story of greed, avarice, and carnal pleasures. Ginny stooped and wiped off his face with a piece of tissue, then stuffed it up her sleeve. “Well, what'll we do today, Tiger, play indoor volleyball?”

As she stood up, she caught her reflection in the mirror and paused for a closer look. She was stunned by what she saw. A thirty-year-old woman with hundred-year-old eyes. Eyes that were dull and listless. Eyes that held no joy. Eyes that looked but never seemed to see anything that interested them. Eyes that reflected no life—only pain.

Quickly, she turned away from the mirror and gathered up the coffee cups. Her eyes caught the phrase on the clipping, “When her child says 'Momma' for the first time, she will be witness to a miracle and know it.”

She knelt beside B.J. "Look, B.J., there's something I've got to tell you. I'm no saint. It's important to me for you to know that. I have cursed you for my guilt, my exhaustion, and my life. I have questioned why both of us were born. I haven't figured out yet why He brought us together. I only know there is something special between us, something I can't even explain to Rob. I couldn't bear it if you were not here, or if you had never been.

“In the mirror just now I saw myself as you must see me—beaten and angry. I'm not like that. Honest. Sometimes, I think I'm the one who's handicapped.” Ginny eased B.J. out of his sling chair and held him close as they both looked into the mirror.

“B.J., I've never made any demands on you. I've never asked you for anything, but right now, I want you to say 'Mama.' I know it's not going to be perfect, but try. Just make a sound. Grunt. Burp. Anything!”

The saliva came out of the corner of B.J.'s mouth. No sound came forth. Then Ginny noticed his eyes. They stared back into hers in a way she had never seen before. They didn't focus right away, then they looked at her for the first time. There was awareness in them, interest, recognition. He knew who she was!

Rob wouldn't believe her. No one would, but B.J. had just spoken his first word with his eyes. He had called her “Mama.”

There were tears in her eyes. She took the article and shoved it into the stove drawer. It was still crap, but there was something to that miracle part.