One thing you can say for sure about Mother’s Day is that this holiday pays tribute to women whose role of “Mom” is in a constant stage of transition. Talk about on the job training! Rookie moms catapulted into service through the miracle of a new baby; multi-tasking moms negotiating familial peace agreements while nudging their toddlers, adolescents or teens into the next developmental phase; a satisfied mother smiling bravely over the lump in her throat as she sends her kids off to college, down the aisle or off to war; and, finally, veteran moms who move full circle as their “babies” have … yes, babies.
There is one phase before this final evolution into grandmother-hood, however, that I think of as “Moms in Limbo.” No, this is not the “limbo” that Pope Benedict XVI recently reversed. The limbo to which I refer is when kids have grown up and vacated the nest for good. We modern, alert moms have done our homework preparing for our empty nests when the parental paradigm shifts, transforming us from fulltime, hands-on participants to bemused, but caring observers. We resume careers, go back to school, sketch out a fresh blueprint for life so our later years remain meaningful and productive.
What isn’t necessarily advertised about this “empty nest syndrome” is the muddled, hormonal stew that boils inside our heads, hinting that, despite our preparedness, we are still waiting for something. A woman may not be instantly cognizant of that “something,” but one day there you are buying miniature clothes for the dog, or coaxing your cranky cat into a high chair to be fed its meal from a pretty dish, or giving the hamster little bubble baths in your mixing bowl. Hmmmm … not necessarily the behavior one would expect from a middle-aged baby-boomer, but those darn maternal instincts aren’t just shut off like water from a spigot, you know.
So you wait patiently within this new limbo, wondering why these awkward feelings are stirring about inside your noggin, hoping the folks at PETA don’t frown upon Mr. Cranky-Pants yowling and hissing in his high chair or that friends won’t be judgmental about the dog’s spiffy new jogging suit or his fancy collar with the rhinestone trim. You choke back admonishments to your spouse to finish his veggies before he’s excused from the dinner table and to remember to put away his tools (toys?) when he’s finished playing, er … using them. And all of a sudden, walking through the baby department becomes an exhilarating adventure (who knew a blanket could be this soft?), and you find yourself recklessly speculating on if … or when.
So you continue to patiently watch at a respectful distance as your grown children become skilled at their new jobs, adjust to the shock of mortgages and utility bills, and fully gain the irrefutable knowledge (as you once did) that 24 hours is crushingly inadequate to contain a day’s worth of living. Then one night you get a phone call; a life-altering, change-the-world-as-you-know-it phone call, and suddenly it all makes perfect sense.
It was the eve of the anniversary of my mother’s passing, and reflections of my mom filled my mind that October night. I was missing her as I picked up the ringing telephone and found my first-born daughter at the other end: “Hi, Mom! It appears that we’re having a baby.”
OK, you fantasize about how graceful you’ll be when you receive the news but, then, you are not me. I suddenly morphed into Shirley MacLaine a la “Terms of Endearment:”
“What did you say?! Sweetie, it is so not funny to tease your mother like that and … oh, my gosh, you’re not kidding? Are you ok? How do you feel? Oh, good heavens … maybe you should go lie down. Wait! Let me speak to Jim … Oh, hi Jim? Listen – do not, I repeat, do not let her do anything strenuous – no heavy lifting, moving furniture, getting overly tired, ok? You must watch her like a hawk!” I all but packed my bags to board the next flight to Los Angeles so I could wrap my daughter in cotton for the next several months. In short, I was an idiot.
Before long I learned that my daughter is a pro at this pregnancy business. She can go to the gym or ride her bike; she knows what to eat and what to steer clear of (sushi? stuffing from inside the turkey for the love of God?); I even learned that she’s going to be a great and wonderful mom. When a case of flu knocked her for a loop, she deduced that her 101 degree temperature might make the baby uncomfortable and kept a cool gel pack on her expanding tummy until the fever broke. And I learned that my daughter, like me, will be a champion worrier. When an ultrasound revealed their baby was a girl, she fretted about a hypothetical, far-distant day when their daughter falls in love with an insensitive young man who callously breaks her heart. Yep, that’s my girl – she’s a natural at this stuff.
So her waistline swelled, her breath became shorter, and she discovered that turning over in bed isn’t quite as simple as it used to be. They registered at the baby store where she shuddered at the sheer volume of “stuff” a baby needs, finally bursting into tears because baby bottles have so many kinds of nipples that she’ll never keep them all straight.
Then friends and family hosted baby showers while my daughter, who last year didn’t know a bottle brush from a toilet brush, found that “nipple knowledge” is just another component of on-the-job training because, as another new mom so astutely put it, “Baby items come with instructions. Babies, unfortunately, do not.”
Happily, this Mother’s Day of 2007 will be observed from a fresh and unique perspective by an expectant new mom and two delighted grandmothers-to-be who wait for one of creation’s sweetest blessings to make her world debut next month when each of us will, in turn, step into her newfound space ’round the circle of life.
Gale Hammond is a 23-year Morgan Hill resident. Reach her at Ga*********@*ol.com.
