When Motherhood is Done
1991: Our Space
The woman in pink cotton shorts was making her way around the park for the third time. My sleeping twin sons, their arms tucked under their chests and their diapered ends skyward, were breathing in a gentle waltz. The sparrows nearby played with the wheat bread I had not finished at lunch and tossed away. The birds fought over the larger crumbs, flying and chirping around our space. Our space was under the towering oaks and the shafts of summer sunlight the dancing leaves sifted upon us. Our space was under the oaks’ protection until my sons would run and jump about the swing set and the rock-filled sandbox. There, and then, outside of my control, my sons would steal the sunlight when they chose.
I watched them sleep and wished for time to be a snapshot. If only time could stop right here and right now. But both my children were gaining weight. Both were strong enough to pull forward with tiny arms–crawling away from me along their cashmere soft mat. I knew I would have double the loss most mothers feel when their child gets on the school bus, just as I had double the contractions. Maybe, seeped in the moment, I would always have the sound of their willowy breaths.
They would steal the sunlight and I would beg the oaks to call my babies back to our blanket–away from the sliding board that appeared not quite anchored to the ground. I would ask the leaves to gather and reach for my sons to protect them from the runny-nosed children who would come to ask my precious boys to play tag. I knew when stronger legs permitted them to run, the oaks would have scattered their leaves under the drifts of snow. The leaves would not hear me.
The woman in pink shorts passed the swing set a fourth time. Her gelatin-thighs jiggled with each heavy step. As she neared our space, I had already packed three soiled diapers and empty juice bottles into the duffle bag and was reaching for my first son. He squirmed a bit as I cupped his limp body in my hands and set him into the carriage. My second son, as weightless, barely moved as I lifted him, but let a long sigh escape when I set him down in the carriage next to his brother. They were both sweaty from sleep and I put my dampened palms to my face to inhale their musky sweetness, like autumn leaves after a September rain.
The sudden sense I was forgetting something that I was afraid I would lose tomorrow interrupted my quiet tasks and overcame me. I froze and looked about the thick green grass, but found only a few bees and the worn blanket we had been resting upon. An old woman began yelling at her grandson to retrieve his bicycle from the street before a speeding car crushed it. I folded the blanket and stopped, once again, waiting for the afternoon breeze to pass and quiet.
A young mother called to her child, her voice startling the pigeons to flight, while she pulled a second, younger child, off the tree he had climbed into. The pigeons settled closer to our space this time and joined the sparrows in the battle for the crumbs. I maneuvered the folded blanket into the bag, nestling it against the empty juice bottles.
I moved myself and my sons quietly towards the car and lifted each boy into respective car seats. Anxiety filled me and I needed to get them home where I could watch them sleep in their cribs and close their nursery curtains against the sunlight.
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2022: LAST MONTH
Last month, my son invited my husband and I to visit him in New Hampshire. He’s living there now, with my dog who is now his dog. He’s also the restaurant manager at a destination inn. His invite came as a pleasant surprise: We would have a suite at the inn and dine at his restaurant.
Traveling is a joy for me. Adventure, new places, and new people raise my spirits. And, New Hampshire has always been a favorite, no matter if the season is the autumn, awash with golds and oranges, the summer, with swims in lakes and raft trips down rivers, the winter, with the sparkle of snow-covered mountains and hot toddies in front of a roaring fire. This time, we would adventure in the spring. What those in New Hampshire call the mud season.
As the snows melt and the water returns to the lakes and rivers from which it came, the streets flood. The ground becomes spongy, gooey clay. And vehicles are splattered with dirt paint. But the trees are bursting with buds, flowering, and green. Bird song fills the crisp air. The towns are quiet as vacationers evacuate the ski slopes and the inns await the summer weddings.
I found the weather epitomized my mood: I felt the promise of my role in my son’s future and the wetness of my tears of no longer needing to mother him.
The drive north was uneventful until the clock struck noon and my husband and I started getting hungry. I texted my son, who assured us we should pass by the fast-food joints along the highway and not worry about a thing, even our lunch. When we arrived at his home, after wrestling with our dog, he presented us with roast chicken and asparagus. We spent time enjoying the view from his patio.
And, immersed in that beauty, in conversation with my son, I found him a stranger. I lost my direction for conversation. I had no laundry to fold. No homework to edit. No bill to pay. No bathroom to clean. No opinion or guidance requested. No lunch to make.
We followed him to the inn, and he escorted us to our room, inviting us to rest and meet him in an hour for dinner. Restless, I showered and dressed while my husband napped. I roamed the room, not knowing where to sit. What to touch.
On the bureau, I found a pamphlet describing the local events for that week. I flipped the page and found a welcome letter with a list of the three managers: the general manager, the innkeeper, and the restaurant manager. The restaurant manager. My son’s name was written there in bold, capital letters. How could that be? He’s only a child. He just learned to tie his shoes.
As we received our tour of the property, I was graced with compliments about my son’s talent and professionalism. Patrons stopped me to tell me how much they depended on him, appreciated him, loved him.
My son, the manager, secured my husband and I royal service: A beautiful suite with bottles of wine. An extra quilt he knew I would want. Dinners prepared just for his parents. A cocktail he created.
When he was three years old, he entered our garden apartment and took my hand, inviting me to see the picture he had made for me. I let him lead me to the driveway. To my car. On the hood, he had used a rock to carve a two-foot circumfluence smiley face. “For you, mommy. It’s happy.”
I thought about that moment all weekend. He is and always will be my son-shine. His love, his care, always given so freely. Always larger than life.
And always a surprise.
This time, the surprise was him. And I felt joy. Happiness I cannot quantify.
And a loss I cannot yet define.
THIS MONTH
This month, my husband and I traveled to Missouri to visit my other son. He has arranged for us to stay at the inn down the street from the home he is renting while he saves to buy his own plot of land. So he can farm and raise goats.
Do what? I never thought that sentence would come from his mouth.
He is determined to become a farmer after the path to be an architect was one he chose not to tread. How I ached watching him anguish over what he considered a failure at the career he had claimed he wanted since middle school. With a full scholarship, he ventured forth as an architect major, only to return home at the end of his first semester. He hated it. He was miserable. He was failing his courses.
And as struggled with who he was to be, what he wanted to do with his precious life, I hid my tears and offered the advice I could: Life is not GPS directions. Life is a map. You can go any direction you choose. If you don’t like the sights, you take a new road.
Life, and parental advice, is that easy.
His house, shared with the love of his life, is warm and cozy. They prepare dinner for us on a wood-burning stove. The pork is from the one my son slaughtered and prepared last fall. The shitake mushrooms are those cultivated on a log in their field. Grains and greens, rich in color, are picked from a nearby farm — and from my son’s own garden. Farm-to-table service for a week.
I felt energized, but awkward, unfamiliar with the composing toilets and natural soaps. This would never be the life for me. And I wonder at my son, the stranger, as he chops wood for the fire and shows us the axe he crafted.
That axe is dangerous, I think, and stop myself from saying. He just learned to tie his shoes. He refuses to clean up his room, his building blocks strewn anywhere my foot can land or the vacuum can jam. I only know he oversleeps and misses school because the truant officer calls me.
I think about those years after he left college. How he announced he was earning a permaculture certificate. Then another. And another. I watched him cultivate squash in our yard, growing vines so long and thick we needed axes to remove them when we harvested the over 30 squash. I had butternut squash soup for two years.
Now, here he is. Planning to purchase farm acreage I can’t even contemplate. I hear how he is completing a siding job for a neighbor. How the local community has come to depend on his construction acumen. How he takes on every project to raise money to purchase his own homestead. To grow trees. And mushrooms. To raise goats and chickens and rabbits. I watch him milk cows and transform the liquid into feta cheese and ice cream. I listen to his plans for their farm. In June, he’s off to fight forest fires with the brigade to earn a considerable nest egg. When he returns, they will have enough for their land.
And today, this day, he is to be married.
This is an impossibility offered as a fact. It becomes all too real as I watch him pledge his vows, offered with his sheepish smile, her hands in his. With effort, I speak when invited, reminding him how he is my boy. How I am blessed to add her as my daughter. The tears pour from me. I am so proud of him. So amazed by him.
I watch him and his new bride embrace. Two adults on a path together. A path I do not walk with them.
As we walk down the hill towards their home, I follow them. I am not on their trip. I am not invited and am a mere spectator.
MOTHERHOOD LOST
That evening, my sons and my new daughter laugh together while they prepare dinner. I ask if they need help. No, they say. Just relax, Mom. We’ve got it, Mom. Let us take care of you, Mom. I am happy for them. They are tenacious, successful and competent. They are pursuing dreams. They are everything I could have hoped for them to be. All my time and focus has raised these fine young men.
I slip outside and walk along the twilight-lit paths. I feign wanting to take pictures, but I want to cry in peace. Goats bleat. I can just make out their silhouettes on the other side of the field. A dove coos. The sun is setting. I blink triumphant tears because I have achieved what I sought to do those 30 years ago. Yet, in this moment, I understand what I have lost.
They no longer need a mother. My parenting job is done. I am alone in that park, under the dappled sunlight. They walk. They ran. They climbed trees they now plant. They lead others. And, as much as I wanted to raise them to adulthood, I also wanted to keep my babies in that moment, always under the oak. Away from light. With me.
No one needs me. Not even to make the rice for dinner. I don’t know how to grow mushrooms. Or inventory a commercial kitchen. Or create a signature cocktail. Or use an axe. What am I now? What is my role? Who am I now?
Tonight, with memories of my recent trips as my sole companions, I am resolving these questions.
I watch a flock of geese take flight from the pond behind the house where my husband and I live. Just us. Alone.
The lake is empty. The birds have all flown away.
My chosen path is before me. I have things to do on my own road. I’ve mapped my own course. I have all this time. I suppose I could spend it on myself.
I consider how proud I am of my sons. How proud I am of myself for raising them. I think of how tightly they hug me when they say hello. Or goodbye. How they call me and text almost daily. How excited they are to share their achievements with me. How they bring beautiful new people into our family. How I have a precious daughter now. How they make dinner for me or reserve the best suite for me.
Motherhood is a role I had. My job is done. My future is to follow the roads my children chart. To stop by for a visit, to enjoy the sites, to meet the locals, to taste the food and to drink the wine.
And to be, always, mom.
1991, from “Notes at the park” Copyright 12 November 1992, CA Schmidt. All rights reserved.
