 |
| Mom and me, 1952. Mom was 21 years old. |
My mother said she was told that a "good mom is a selfish mom." I would wake up early and she would put me in a playpen and go back to sleep. My cousin Linda would come and take me out and play with me. I would beg Mom to color my favorite coloring book pages, knowing I would only scribble and she could make the picture pretty. She told me to do it myself.
I did learn to color, quite well in fact.
When our son was born Mom thought I was too weak and easily manipulated, too indulgent. I had to learn to set limits, say no, make demands. Then I was told that parents have to 'line the nest with thorns' to force children to leave the nest and fly.
Mothers ache to protect their children and smother them with feather hugs, but end up being mean--setting limits and expectations, pushing towards growth and self sufficiency. Instead of being idolized, we are cast into the outer darkness as our children detach and learn independence. It's hard being a mom, for its when we are not needed that we have succeeded.
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| Mom in 1970 |
When my son was little I was still actively writing poetry. Here are four poems I wrote about motherhood.
****
Pockmarks
He
is seven now, the child who was so small and perfect
when
he was given to me.
Incarnation
comes with strings attached,
pain
and disappointments,
hard
lessons to be learned, illnesses and heartaches.
Today
he is learning about bullies and power;
the
power we give up, and the power forcefully taken from us.
He
tries to articulate the feelings that fill his small breast,
the
fears and the questions. And I try to teach him
one
more lesson, although I am not certain I know truth from fable.
Day
by day, I send him off into the world; questioning
my
ability to explain how we live and survive
and
surmount life's challenges...
My
child was born a perfect model of babyhood,
bright
smile under observant eyes, his body flawless.
Today
I note his allergic red eyes and the three pockmarks
on his face, the red gum where a new tooth gnaws upward,
and
I wonder what lesions are forming in his heart,
and
if he will keep them with him for ever
or
if they will be healed with only a scar left behind.
****
A
whisper of most tenuous thread
fragile,
frail, the feeling of belonging
one
to the other
Yet
testing, always, endurance,
limits,
our own strength
to
live apart,
Alone.
And fearing to find
it
can be done,
one
does survive
without
the other.
O,
Child, you grow so quickly
who
once believed me you
And
I, Mother, lose you
ever
so quietly, an erosion
of
bounds, to the world.
*****
I
watch my son
go
down the corkscrew slide
slowly,
slowly turning.
He
holds onto the rails
to
pace his descent.
In
his features I can trace
the
toddler’s self-satisfied joy
and
wonder.
How
much longer will I see there
the
face I know so well?
He
does not understand how quickly he descends,
who
thinks he is moving so slowly.
Let
him go slowly, slowly.
Let
the child remain.
Let
me see in undeveloped features
the
eternal possibilities,
the
contentment
of
merely being.
February
25, 1998
*****
I
had believed
I would bear light
to the glories of this world,
leading by the hand in small
steps
to view sugar plum fairies and
robin's eggs
like the pastel illustrations
in a book.
I did not know I would be
also the first bearer of
darkness,
teacher of life's many small
cruelties.
Steel heart, o sharp and
needle-like!
And that small face seeking in
mine
consolation, questioning love,
his eager kisses, smothered in
them,
each like an electric volt.
I am forgiven of necessity,
held greater than
disappointment;
for how long, I wonder.
*****
