Opinions expressed in this piece are solely those of the author.
“With boys, you always know where you stand. Right in the path of a hurricane. It’s all there. The fruit flies hovering over their waste can, the hamster trying to escape to cleaner air, the bedrooms decorated in Early Bus Station Restroom.” – Erma Bombeck
If there ever was a writer who summarized motherhood, it was the legendary humorist, Erma Bombeck. For 31 years, her syndicated column, “At Wit’s End,” entertained the nation. Millions of people found her stories of Midwestern suburban life to be relatable and hilarious. As a young mother, I remember picking up one of her books in a doctor’s office and laughing in delight. Erma understood me.
For 35 years, this mother has been standing “right in the path of a hurricane.” As with any hurricane, you never choose it. It chooses you. There you are, toodling along in your regular, peaceful, ordinary life when bam! The hurricane makes landfall, and you are caught up in the fury and swirl until it subsides. Only with motherhood, it doesn’t subside. It merely changes.
Recently, I was sorting through a pile of memorabilia–school papers, handmade cards with crayoned affection, the flotsam and jetsam of four young lives. Somewhere in the stack, I found a note. It wandered across the page, letters written in pencil by a childish hand. In the bottom corner, my own cursive added this notation with the date. “I have something that will make you cry.” This is what the seven-year-old author said before he handed me his missive.
“I am sore I sed I hat you.” I am sorry I said I hate you.
I don’t recall what happened that made him angry that day, but something did, and he lashed out. Then when his young heart was pricked, he wanted to make it right, so he penciled the note.
It was this same “hurricane” who, years later, saved up all his money and bought a beagle. Daily, he fed Copper and walked him after school. The outdoors, the fresh air, and the companionship of that dog were sheer therapy for a high-energy kid. One day he told me, “Mom, when I’m mad at you and Dad, I just tell it to Copper, and it seems like he understands me.” I smiled, glad that he was finding consolation, knowing that it brought him closer to God.
In the stack of paper memories, I also found an essay. The title in bold at the top of the page was “Words.” I nearly laughed out loud, recalling the assignment and its genesis.
Overhearing an argument between his two oldest siblings, the two-year-old had learned a new word. Which he carried into his little class and used on a teacher in a fit of frustration. Aghast, I scolded the toddler and then tracked down the source. “Fifteen hundred words, buddy,” we told our oldest son, “on the use of the tongue and the power of words.”
The essay, it turned out, was mostly Scripture with chapter and verse typed out to increase the word count. He ended it like this, “I’ve learned a lot from this…I’m very sorry and will try not to do it again. THE END.” Which, of course, made words 1499 and 1500.
Hurricanes for sure. Foot races in the house. Routine thumping and wrestling. Holes in the sheetrock. Flatulence that turned a moving vehicle into a gas chamber. Pantry raids that made the Taliban look like amateurs. And groceries? We may as well have set piles of money on fire, for everything we had to show from the exorbitant bills at the supermarket. If we felt like burning more, we simply visited the dentist and paid for another set of braces.
Now, after all these years, hurricane season is shifting again. In mere weeks, our last-but-not-least blue-eyed boy will graduate, and so will end sixteen full years at the high school. No more cross-country meets. No more theater. No more swing choir, or concerts, or lunch accounts that need to be funded. No more. What a precious time it has been.
Erma Bombeck said it this way. “When mothers talk about the depression of the empty nest, they’re not mourning the passing of all those wet towels on the floor, or the music that numbs your teeth, or even the bottle of capless shampoo dribbling down the shower drain. They’re upset because they’ve gone from the supervisor of a child’s life to a spectator. It’s like being the vice president of the United States.”
One thing she didn’t mention is the self-doubt that many mothers feel when they send their kids into the big, wide world. We doubt that we’ve done enough or been enough, and we wonder if we have them prepared for what life will send their way.
As a Veteran of the Mom Wars, I’ll tell you how I deal with this doubt. I remember the story of the young boy, which I learned on a wooden bench in Sunday School class.
In his hands, he bears a simple lunch of fish and bread, carefully packed by his mother. He places it beside him where he sits on the grass. Through the crush of people come rough men with stubbled cheeks. They move through the crowd, stopping to talk to folks who are seated on the ground. And then, at once, they bend low, reaching for his basket.
They turn and fight their way back through the masses, placing the humble meal into the hands of a bearded man who takes it up. Raising his eyes to the sky, he gives thanks. Breaking the loaves, he sends his friends back through the murmuring crowd. Bread and fish for everyone, all you can eat, with baskets and baskets leftover.
Yes, we are that little boy. We offer what we have. We surrender our baskets to the bearded man, and everyone, including our kids, will be fed. It will be more, far more than enough, thanks to the Great Multiplier.
Happy Mother’s Day to you from America’s small, caffeinated mom!
