Convos with My Three-Year-Old: The Leaves

I love these. They are so true.

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Motherhood: Your Brain on Babies

Moms are different from Dads. As I learned while we were raising our kids, it takes both moms and dads, with their different approaches, to do the best job for children.

My kids used to think I could read their minds. My husband joked about how they could spout off a string of baby jibberish and I would understand every word of it. On the other hand, they learned about respecting women not, as you might think, from me, but from their father.

They got self-respect, discipline and a sense of what the world is from both of us. Together, mothers and fathers provide a balanced and, if one of the other of them isn’t indulging their inner narcissism by mistreating their family, harmonious understanding of life, people and themselves.

Nothing else — I repeat — nothing else can do this. I’ve seen the faux science of the faux studies saying that you can raise kids every which way and they turn out “fine.” I’ve also seen the real-life results. I’ve seen the drug addiction, the sexual dysfunctions, the inability to care for or even care about their own children that results from raising kids according to your inner self indulgence.

I’ve listened to parents as they wailed “I didn’t raise them this way,” and I’ve never once said to them, “Yes. You did.”

By the time we get to this point, the damage is done. The kids are ruined people who cannot even properly bond to another person of the opposite sex and raise families of their own.

I’ll admit it does disturb me when the same parents who messed up their own kids — grandparents now — end up raising their children’s children. It is, admittedly, better than trusting these children to their own parents. After all, the grandparents might have made a total mess of raising the first generation, but at least, they didn’t get them killed. In many instances, if you left the children with the children of these people’s raising, that is what would happen.

Moms are absolutely necessary if we are going to survive as a culture, a nation or even a species. Dads are also necessary, but this is the day after Mother’s Day, so I’m focusing on the first love any of us know: Our mothers. If that first love fails, then nothing else we do for a child will undo this early and absolute damage to them as people.

Here’s a brief description of the scientific twist on what happens in the brains of good mothers when they have children.

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The Gift and the Miracle

“Old age is a shipwreck.”

That quote is attributed to Charles de Gaulle, John Kennedy, Orson Welles and various others. It would seem that a plethora of famous folks feel that old age and its attendant ills and declines is a misery and a curse.

I am taking care of my 87-year-old mother in the weakness of her slow going home and I have to say I disagree with these famous men. Old age is a gift. It is a tenderness and a sweetness and a time of extreme clarity and trust.

My mother was a tomboy. She climbed trees and played baseball. When she wasn’t playing sports, she was an absorbed fan, watching from the bleachers or listening to games on the radio and later watching them on tv. Now, she walks with a cane, and I have to help her up and down, in and out.

My mother loved to drive her car, insisted on owning one. She got her driver’s license, in an era when girls didn’t always get a license, the first day she was eligible and she drove herself where she wanted to go every day after that. Until the day I had to take her car keys from her so that she wouldn’t hurt herself or someone else. Now, she waits for rides and comes and goes according to other people’s schedules.

My mother lit up her first cigarette when she was 17 and smoked like a diesel for the next 70 years. Until the day the doctor told her that another cigarette might shut down her copd-afflicted lungs and I had to ban them from her existence.

My mother, who was and is my most stalwart supporter, my cheering squad, my best friend. No matter what I’ve done, both good and bad, my mother was always there to back me up, stand by me and help me out. I’ve always known, never doubted, never for a single moment considered any other possibility, that she would lay down her life for me anytime, anywhere, any hour or day that I needed it.

If I needed a heart transplant, my mother would say, “Here, take mine.” If I started robbing banks, she’d get mad at the bank.

I talked about my father in another post. My parents were insanely proud of me, totally trusting of me, and they convinced me from an early age that I could climb the Empire State Building bare-handed if I wanted to.

So, why, now that my brave tomboy mother walks with a cane and is dependent on family for all her care, do I say that old age is NOT a shipwreck?

Because, well … because it’s not. It’s a time of life; a return to innocence and trust and a laying down of responsibility and worry. My mother was always a worrier, a half-empty child of the depression who knew that every silver lining has its cloud. But she’s past that now. At some point that neither one of us noticed when it happened, she turned all her worries over to me.

The same mother I’ve trusted all my life now trusts me to care for, manage and make right all the bothersome details of her life. She trusts me the way my children trusted me when they were babies. She is so sweet, so dear, so unbelievably precious, that I could never, ever, never, regard this time of care taking and leave-taking as anything but a gift.

Is taking care of my mother while managing a demanding job a “burden?” Is it something that I resent or wish was different? Nope.

It’s a gift and a blessing. All God ever wants to do is bless us. But sometimes His blessings look different than we expect. We pray, in the words of Janis Joplin, for a Mercedes Benz. We get instead blessings of love, life and the responsibilities for one another that are part of living and loving.

Old age is not a shipwreck. It is one of the times of our lives. It is a gift of grace and beauty; a return to innocence and childlike joy for the one who is aged; a time to cherish and give back for those of us who haven’t gotten there yet.

I would not miss one day of the time I’ve spent with my mother, not from the days she took my hand and walked me safely across the street, to now, when I do the same for her.

That is the gift and the miracle of love.


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