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More Than One Way to be a Mom
I was saddened recently by the realization that my little ones have a different mother than their senior siblings.
Daughter Number One was fondly recalling some of the books I once had Read Aloud to her and the older boys, when Son Five-of-Six asked, “What is Read Aloud?” It was a shocking Moment of Truth; an Awakening to the fact that the annual reading of 10-15 excellent volumes of Literary Quality had bit the dust before his time. He, in fact, was the straw that broke the back of that noble practice with his early toddling and talking. I couldn’t expect him to be quiet for two-hours-most-nights and I couldn’t stay awake reading after his bedtime. There it went. Out the window in a flash of Reality – an Institution overthrown by a mite! (Physicists will smile knowingly and murmur, “Ah, chaos theory at work.”)
Seeing my dismay at the Unfairness of Life, Hannah (may she be the mother of at least eight and get it all back in spades!) pressed on. “And remember when you used to bake all our 100% whole wheat bread Fresh? Or when you’d set the table each night with Cloth Napkins for a Real Breakfast with Homemade Muffins? And it was so nice when you knew ahead of time what was for dinner and we could look forward to it all day.”
“Stop!” I cried. “Say no more. Isn’t it bad enough the kidlets get every-man-for-himself boxed cereal for breakfast? Must you taunt them with the vision of the Way it Was?” Not one to resist poking Mom’s clay feet, she continued mercilessly. “And speaking of food, you let me help you cook when I was only two years old.” Little ears perked up at this, and the 2, 4, and 6 year olds who’ve never yet cracked an egg, stirred muffin mix, rolled meatballs, or kneaded bread began to object loudly to the ways of the New Mom. In a rare alignment with his big sister, the 10 year old added, “Oh yeah, and I remember finger painting and water colors! What a fun mess that made!” The righteous indignation of those who have been told messy art projects are for some unspecified time “when you’re bigger” crescendoed.
It was time to fight fire with fire. I couldn’t let myself be bettered by a younger, lighter woman with only five kids and a manic devotion to Homemaking. “The Old Mom was a slave driver!” I shouted above the din. “The older kids all had Daily Chores and year-round school!” The tide began to turn. I felt doubt weakening the protesters. “She never blew off Planned Menus and sent out for pizza. She made the kids ride through town for hours of errands and garage sales. The New Mom gives up sleeping in with Dad on Saturdays to go erranding all alone.” (Here, I tried to make a sort of sad, lonely sound so my glorious weekly morning of freedom would sound more sacrificial.)
It worked. The littles were back in my camp, preferring the mom with no time to train them to do chores, no desire to fill the year with Formal Education, and no hesitation substituting pizza for a Real Dinner at the slightest excuse. They like pouring their own cereal, and crayons will do for now.
In a last, desperate volley, my daughter started to say something about the days of fun field trips and family travel. Then she realized I might actually call her bluff and put her in a cramped van with several whining seatmates for a thousand miles, and thought better of it. Order was restored and all of us were resigned to being content with the Current Mom, whoever she is.
Note: This article appeared originally in Canticle magazine. I actually returned to Reading Aloud constantly soon after this, but never went back to the amazing efficiency or homemaking of my younger days! The kids made of pizza seem just as great to me as the ones who got fresh whole wheat bread and Planned Meals.
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