On Mothers

Moving back in with my parents a few years after becoming a parent myself was not really in my master plan.  I prided myself on never having moved home after college.  Two weeks after graduation I packed my suitcases and moved to the big apple never again to claim my childhood home’s address as my own again.  Well, until now that is.  Twelve years after leaving for college, one husband and two kids later, I’m back in the room of my teenage years.  Well played God, well played.

Inevitably this move comes with some tension, some awkwardness, some growing pains.  I find myself reverting to ways of interacting with my parents that I haven’t employed for years.  It is normal, I’ve been told, to fall back on these familiar patterns of living with those who raised you.

Most days I cook dinner for everyone.  Cooking dinner is causing a large amount of anxiety in me.  Suddenly every night feels like a high stakes dinner party.  Before moving in with my parents my culinary feats were consumed by Toots, who eats everything you put in front of her, Monster, who only eats one big meal every three days and employs no rhyme or reason to what he will and won’t eat on a particular day, and Tommy who eats pretty much everything and will make a frozen pizza for second dinner if necessary.  Low stakes at their finest here.  Now I’m cooking for people more finely tuned palates and I’m terrified.  (Perhaps I need to go back and read my own advice…)

A few weeks ago, as I prepared dinner for us all, I found myself battling the insecurity and anxiety that accompanies the five-o-clock hour now.  My dad asked me a pretty innocent question about how I was preparing the meal.  I responded with a flustered, anxiety ridden half answer followed by “that’s-probably-not-a-good-idea-what-do-you-think-I-should-do-and-how-do-you-usually-make-this?!”

My mother, calmly and encouragingly said, “that sounds great.  Do it how you would normally cook it.  It’ll be great.”  It was a simple, motherly statement, infusing confidence into her (grown) daughter.  I’m sure my mother has been saying things like this to me my whole life, but in that instance I truly saw it for what it was.  I recognized that tone, the loving patience.  It is the same voice and inflection I use with Monster as his little hands work to manipulate scissors and Toots as her body struggles to string steps together into bona fide walking.  They are the voice and words of a mother trying to help her baby take clumsy, awkward steps towards self-confidence and blessed assuredness.

And there she was, her baby now 30 years old, my mother still mothering.  My mother could still recognize my insecurity and parented the best way she knew how… towards self-confidence and blessed assuredness.

We never really stop being mothers do we?  It’s strangely comforting this thought.  To all the mothers out there, from those who’ve been at this game for decades to those who are snuggling fresh new babes and all those in between, happy day.  Thanks for mothering the best way you know how, and for never truly stopping.