Tag: Mom

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Grace Under Pressure

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Here’s to you mom, the young and the old,

with dishes to wash, and shirts to fold.

Here’s to you mom, the rich and the poor,

the one herding everyone out the door.

Here’s to you mom, the single and married,

with lives that are full, and too often harried.

Hold on Mom, your time will come,

when there is no more work, it’ll all be fun.

So, enjoy it Grandma, now it’s all downhill,

A feast to enjoy, and never a bill.

 

Yesterday was Monday, and every other Monday during the school year, starting today, I’ll be playing mom to my six-year-old granddaughter for the afternoon. This is because my daughter and I have unusual work schedules since we both work at a hospital; she in the ER, and I work on a medical/surgical floor. She works every Monday, from 8-8, and has to rely on her father and me to pick-up Bean at school, take her to dance, and get her to bed. It turns out, that this is an exhausting afternoon for a grandmother, even a fairly energetic one like me.

it’s not that I haven’t done something like this before—my children are 27 and 21, and they both participated in a variety of sports that required numerous trips to and from school, not just after school, but before it as well…as in 4:30 am for a powerlifting program they inexplicably loved. I somehow acclimated to rising at 3:50 am, throwing on sweatpants and a hat and winter jacket (hey! This is Maine!), and sleepily driving the five miles to school, a silent teen, huddled like a turtle in it’s shell, inside a hooded sweatshirt beside me. Afternoons were more lively; sweaty, dirty and triumphant after a great game, or sometimes loaded down with friends bemoaning a loss, the afterschool task of chauffeuring my kids was always fun. I’m used to all the “running around” required of a mom with active kids—Or, at least I used to be.

“School gets out at 2:50, get there 10 minutes early, go to the office and fill out the pink sign-out sheet. Then wait in the hallway. You will have to watch and pluck her out of the herd of kids because she doesn’t always see me. Dance arrival is 3:45, her pink dance bag is in the living room. Please pack a water. Dance pick up is 5:30. Please ask her if she has homework. She should go to bed at 7:30.” My daughter is very organized, and gives explicit instructions which I appreciate, because I seem to have lost any sense of urgency that I used to employ to make sure that we were all where we were supposed to be, with clean faces and a minimum of five minutes to spare. I ran a tight ship back in the day, but now my ship is more like a pleasure cruise, and I am happy to let my daughter be the captain. She’s very good at it.

After a few clarifications, I showed up at the school and waited with the others, 3/4 of whom were moms. They’re easy to spot. Some hold coffee cups, some hold toddlers, all hold their phones, either in their hands, or stuffed into the back pocket of their jeans. They lean comfortably against the walls and chat about mom stuff, “I know! Harper always wants to watch that show,” and “I just can’t believe how fast they’re growing! My oldest just turned 15!!” The dads look uncomfortable and shuffle their feet, communication limited to a nod of sympathy to other dads, angling for a spot on the wall. I could almost hear them thinking of each other, “poor bastard, wonder how he got roped into this…” They too hold their phones, squinting fervently into the screen, which I know instantly is a ruse, because being an outsider myself, I also tried casually scrolling through my phone, so that I would feel less awkward and out-of-place, only to find to my disappointment that there was absolutely no service in that part of the school. Everyone waits for the kids to come out. Finally they do—and just as my daughter predicted, I did have to fish her out of a stream of kids. She threw her arms around my waist, and shouted ”Noni!!” She smiled a jack-o-lantern smile, while looking over her pink glasses like an adorable little librarian. French braided pig tails with loose strands springing out, and a giant backpack on her back, water bottle tucked in the side pocket, off we went, through the school doors and into the unseasonably hot September afternoon.

I can happily say that we did everything we were supposed to do (except for the shower her mother requested when she called at her dinner break; because, well, it just seemed like all too much), she had a snack, got changed for dance, got there in time, came home, had dinner, did homework, had a little tv time, brushed her teeth, read a story, and went to bed. But, because I’m a grandmother, I cheated a bit. Her snack was a cupcake from a local bakery, I let her watch YouTube videos in the car, dinner was a happymeal, and honestly, if she had whined about brushing her teeth, I’d have said, “oh well, it won’t hurt just this once!” But she didn’t.

However, even with all these shortcuts, I still found this afternoon exhausting. Usually when I’m with her, we have no agenda at all, Sure, I’ve had to pick a sick Bean up at school a few times, much to her working mom’s relief, and I’ve even taken her to an appointment or two, but usually we while away our days playing Barbies, baking, shopping, and going out to lunch.

There was a time though, when my life revolved around my children; their needs, wants and activities, and my husband and I managed it all while we worked and each went to college, and didn’t think anything of it. Not about the daycare that closed permanently one Friday afternoon, when I came to pick my daughter up, because as the daycare owner tearfully confessed, “my husband is cheating on me! I just can’t do this!” Not cleaning up vomit at 2 am, when I had to get up in 2 hours, or the battle royale faced every freaking night about homework (our daughter) and bedtime (our son). I look back now, and think, “how did we do it and not kill each other?” The answer is grace. God gives you the grace that you need for every season of your life. grace is quiet and gentle, like a soft sweater. You aren’t even aware of its presence at all, and there is only one way to know for sure that you were given grace, and that is when you look back at that time in your life and think… “How, did I do it all?” That does not mean that it’s not difficult, or that you don’t cry at night. Or nearly psychotically, endlessly, repeat Robert Frost’s “…and miles to go before I sleep” as you drive a wailing toddler to the babysitters at 5;30 in the am, both of you with blankets over your laps, and a scraper in your hand to clean the windshield of frost as you drive down the dark road because, the blower broke in your car, and you have no money to fix it.

But, I digress, clearly there is a lot of emotion left over if I  think about how hard it really was. It is difficult to be everything to someone, or several someones. It is scary to feel like your little ones future rests on your shoulders and that if you mess this up, they might end up being a bad person. It is tiring to always have to do things the right way and rarely “cheat” as I did with Bean last night. But, it is so worth it. Because someday, when you have come through that exhausting season of life, you might be the grandparent, breezing through the drive-thru, not a shred of guilt, or a morsel of remorse for that snack-time cupcake. Let me tell you, because I’ve been there, no grace is needed for this job. Hallelujah!

 

 

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East to West “Empty Nest” is the Best

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I love my children. Let me just make that clear right off the bat. I loved it when they were babies and their eyes tracked me wherever I went. I loved it when they learned to walk and wobbled their way across the room, and lurched straight into my arms. I loved it when they were preschoolers and asked “why?” and followed me everywhere, even to the bathroom. I loved it when they were in school and brought their friends home, and I made meals for them, and they all slept over. I loved when they were in High School and I could chat and gossip with their friends, even when my kids were at work, or still sleeping, and I loved going to games, meets and competitions. I even loved crying secretly at their graduations, just as I cried openly the first time they climbed on the school bus. Those days are behind me now, and all I can say is…. “Thank God!!”

My husband and I are empty-nesters! Well, kind of; our adult son still lives at home, while he saves for a home of his own. But, he works a lot, and is often out with his friends, and he helps with the bills, so he feels more like a friendly boarder than our kid. A friendly boarder who just now while I’m typing away, sitting on a swing on our back deck, thoughtfully brought me a slice of pizza and a wad of paper towels to soak up the greasy goodness. Pizza that I did not have to buy, or even think about buying, because he takes care of his own meals. Plus he makes the coffee in the morning, does a lot of the yard work, and he watches Shameless, The Office and Seinfeld with me, so having him here is a pleasure.

This means that my husband and I are free to do whatever we want, when we want. I can’t tell you how fun that is! Maybe it’s because I’ve been at this Mother thing for a long time; almost 27 years actually. And since we watched our granddaughter while her mom was at work for the first four years of her life, we were tied down even after our own kids were adults. We loved that “job,” but now that she is old enough for school, we are officially retired from childcare and have her when we want, like grandparents do.

This newly found freedom has led to many adventures for us already. We’ve started to travel, real travel, which requires a passport and long arduous airplane rides. We go four-wheeling, kayaking, jeeping and walking on a daily basis, and plan adventures for our selves. like zip-lining and skydiving (He’s addicted, me…not so much!). On my days off, four a week for me, because I am a nurse, we go to bed when we want and get up when we want. We can take naps, and our housework is minimal because we have no more mini tornados leaving a trail of destruction. In short, life is good right now; easy, selfish and relatively carefree.

I can see why this might be hard for some people, women in particular I think, because our identities are so wrapped up in our children. We are “Mom,” and that’s how we think of ourselves.  I remember when my son went to kindergarten, those first few times of grocery shopping with out him, I felt so unmoored and anonymous. I had been taking a little one shopping with me for 11 years, actually my whole adult life, and without one or both of my children with me, I felt like a nobody; a nameless woman perusing the aisles. But, I got over that pretty quickly when I realized how fast I could get it done, and I spent far less without cute little faces  imploring me to buy sugary cereals for the prize inside (side note: what happened to the prizes in cereal anyway?).

Suddenly, being a mom was not first and foremost in my life. Being a mother has been my most important job, and the one I’m most proud of. I poured my heart and soul into my children. I spent all my free time with them when the were growing up, and I’m proud to say, for the most part I wouldn’t change a thing about the way I raised them. I remember even in my early 20’s thinking, “I don’t want to regret anything, and I don’t want them to ever wish that I would have spent more time with them.” I’m thankful that I had the wisdom at that young age to live for them, instead of for me, because now that they are adults, I can live for myself without guilt. And because my husband and I invested so much time into them when they were little, now they want to spend time with us, which is great. Except for sometimes, but that’s OK because believe me,  I have no qualms about saying, “your father and I want to be alone.” Woot! Woot!

 

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Full Circle

Posted on by Susannah Warner

“When you get little, and I get big, you can sit in the back seat and I will sit in the front” one of my older sisters is rumored to have said when she was a preschooler. We have chuckled about this over the years, and it was brought up again recently, when my mother and I picked up my eldest sister at the train station for a long weekend visit. I was the driver, and my mother insisted on riding in the back, finally fulfilling the prophesy spouted off by a cranky four-year old, some fifty years ago.

It’s a curious thing, this circle of life. One day you are a child, the next you have children of your own. Another blink of an eye and your children are grown, and giving you advice as freely as you once gave them, with the same reception. An eye-roll, perhaps, or some other outward expression of indifference or annoyance. Yet, ultimately the advice or command is usually followed because you know that this person is one of the few in the world who loves you unconditionally, and says these things out of love and concern for your well-being as you have always done for them. As a nurse, I’ve seen this over and over again. The majority of the patients on the floor I work on are elderly, and sometimes confused. Sometimes it’s from a change in their surroundings, sometimes it’s medication induced, sometimes dementia, but mostly it’s a combination. All nurses know that when an elderly patient becomes restless or agitated, it’s best to call in a family member. Most often it is one of the children.  The “child” is quite often elderly themselves, as it is not uncommon for our patients to be well into their 90’s. The daughter or the son usually comes in regardless, even in the middle of the night.

“Mom! What’s this I hear about you giving these nurses a hard time?” is quite often the first thing I hear as they enter, a feeling of peace descending upon the room. Occasionally, the patient will have such an advanced case of Alzheimer’s that they might not recognize the family member, but still, there is some thing there. A discernment of spirit; soul to connected soul. Sometimes the presence of a family member can cause the patient to become more upset, because they want to go home with them, but I’ve seen this more when a spouse leaves, than with the children. The child holds a connection and authority that the spouse does not. Many times on the way out one of them, usually a daughter, will sidle up to the desk, and as a mother does when leaving instructions for a baby-sitter say, “now, you call me if she gives you any more trouble, and if she won’t take her pills, tell her I said that she must. ”

Now, don’t think that we as nurses don’t use this to our advantage, a scenario that goes something like this; “I know you don’t want to take your medication, Mrs. Smith, but Ruth said that you should take it. ” “Oh Ruth! ”  Mrs. Smith will scoff, swatting at the air with a hand worn smooth from a lifetime of loving. “She’s so bossy! Always has been.” Yet, the hand tips for the medication and the mouth opens for the water to wash them down.

It makes me wonder about my own days ahead. Already, my adult children give me advice and admonishment, which is not always unwarranted. I already know who will be the “bossy” one. That status unquestionably goes to my daughter. With a commanding presence and a quickness of step, I can just see her now, bustling into my hospital room, a plant in her hands (so much more practical than flowers!), 50 years from now, where I will quite possibly be languishing in bed. “Mom! It’s time to get up.” I’m pretty sure she will say, snapping open the window shades. “Breakfast will be here soon and I want you to sit in the chair and have a good meal before you take your medication. Then, we will walk in the hall, while we wait for the doctor to round and see what the plan is.” No doubt, I will be ready for breakfast, up in the chair, hair combed, teeth in, and glasses on when my tray arrives which I will gamely attempt to finish.  My daughter will be the one to gather information, give instructions and handle all the unpleasant business. She will make it look easy, and she will pass information to her brother and tell him when he should visit. She will give instructions to the nurses on her way out to call her if there are any problems or changes. She will answer the phone on the first ring, even if it is 3 in the morning.

My son will arrive with a dozen roses, because they are beautiful, not practical. He will look cautiously around the door frame to make sure he isn’t waking me. He will give me a hug and kiss my forehead as I do to him now. “How are you Mom?” he will say. He won’t say much, certainly he won’t boss me around. He will probably sit beside me and watch a TV show, he will encourage me to eat my supper (in my bed because he won’t make me get up and sit in the chair to eat), and read to me if I request it. He will help me take a walk, holding my hand to keep me steady, as I once held his when he was learning to walk. His quiet presence will be the perfect calming end to the day, just as my daughter’s vibrancy was the spark I needed to start it. He will stay with me until I’m almost asleep, then he will say “Love you Mom” as he leaves the room as quietly as he entered. He also will approach the nurses station on his way out, but with a shy smile and an offer to come back if I need him. He will also answer on the first ring even it’s 3 in the morning.

This is all conjecture, of course, based solely on how I see my children now, and from what I know of the circle of life from 30 years of caring for the elderly. I’m so thankful for the children I’ve been given, both so precious to me in their own way. I can only hope and pray I did right by them when they were little and vulnerable, and in the backseat, so that they will do right by me when I’m little and no longer the driver of my own life. I’m pretty sure I did a good job, and that they will too.

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More Precious than Jewels

Posted on by Susannah Warner

She is far more precious than jewels. Proverbs 31:10

This is the face of a mom who has to go to work. Her daughter wants her to stay home but she has to go. Her mouth smiles but her eyes do not. She has her keys in her hand, her purse on her shoulder and she has had to ask for favors from family and friends to watch her daughter because it is nearly impossible to afford daycare and because her evening and weekend work schedule does not allow her to send her daughter to one anyway. She cries as she drives and she thinks about that sad face. “I can’t do this,” she says aloud. But she is doing it. She works in a busy emergency room where she will see good moms, with pinched, worried faces. Mothers whose children have high fevers or a broken arm. She will also see a few bad moms. Selfish and rude, with coarse voices and a hardened exterior, they will sneak outside for a cigarette or demand to know in a loud, disruptive voice, “what the f#@$ is taking so long?”  But those moms are few and far between. Many of the  mothers are single and many are like this mom; trying to get by, struggling to raise kind, productive citizens on boxed macaroni and cheese. This is a picture of my daughter, She is a single mom. She is one of many, many women who are doing it every day, even though they feel like they can’t.

This is to the mom who drops her kids off at daycare after an early morning wake-up call in which the first thought was that you are going to go to bed early tonight for a change instead of basking in the one hour of alone time you have all day. A morning spent changing diapers, feeding the cat, asking, then telling, then finally yelling at your preschooler to get her shoes on in between trying to make yourself presentable for work and then suddenly remembering that the baby has a well-child checkup mid-day and you will have to get out of work early. You drop them off in a rush, but the baby clings to your legs and puts up his chubby arms for you to pick him up. You smile and remove him, give him a kiss and tell him that you love him, and leave him with his caregiver. You cry on the way to work and think, “I can’t do this. ”  But you are doing it.

This is to the mom whose six-year-old exhausts you with requests to play Uno, Barbies, and hopscotch. “Read to me, watch me, play with me” is her battle cry. You go to the bathroom to get a minute to yourself but the door bangs open and in she comes, asking to make cookies with you. You need a break, an hour alone to not talk or smile and to please no one but yourself. But there is no one to relieve you, and you feel guilty for wishing you could be alone. “I can’t do this,” you think as you get out the chocolate chips and she pulls a kitchen chair up to the counter so that she can “help.” But you are doing it.

This is to the mom whose teenage son is angry with school and with life. His music is loud and his hair is long. His friends are questionable and his girlfriend is sullen. He stays out past curfew one night and you do not sleep and instead, frantically text, call, and social-media stalk him and his friends to determine his whereabouts. You wonder if you should start texting other parents or maybe call the police, until finally, two hours late, he stumbles in, the stench of rebellion poisoning the air.  You know that you should wait until the morning, but you are tired and relieved and angry all at once, so you yell at him and he yells back. Your sweet baby boy punches a hole in the wall and in your heart and then slams his door while you think to yourself, “I can’t do this.” But you are doing it.

Mom, this is the hardest task you that will ever be entrusted to you. You won’t be sure of yourself and you will always feel guilty. There will never be a time when you think,  I’m doing a damn good job. You will always worry, wonder, and at times wish it away. As a single mom, the full mantle of responsibility rests on your shoulders. You are the good cop and the bad cop, the yin and the yang. You have no one to bounce ideas off of, to tell you when you are being ridiculous or to support you with an end-of-discussion Dad voice warning the whiner to “listen to your mother.”

It is a struggle: financially, mentally, and emotionally. There will be days when you feel confident and in control and nights when fear, the friend of darkness, pins you to your bed, paralyzing your body and stimulating your mind.  But when the sun comes up, and your phone alarm goes off in the morning, and you roll out of bed swearing that you will go to bed early tonight, know this: You are strong and beautiful. Your strength comes from adversity and your beauty comes from every challenge that you have faced along the way. These hard times are polishing you and preparing you for the day when your babies are grown and they show you off  like a young woman shows off her engagement ring. “Meet my Mom,” he will say, diploma in hand, his face alight, “I couldn’t have done it without her.” On that day, you, in a green dress, tissue in hand, standing back to let your baby have his moment, will be brought forth and your worth and brilliance will be on display for all to admire. You will finally know what your children have learned and what we bystanders have always known; that you are precious and that you did a damn good job.

 

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Updated Version: ( I finally had my) Scrambled eggs and the “Mom Experience”

Posted on by Susannah Warner

 

See, what I mean (see below if you haven’t already read this)?

 

I really can’t describe the feeling of disappointment I felt this morning, when I pulled into my mother’s driveway and saw that her car was gone. I sat there for a minute, car idling until I remembered what time it was. It was only 8:30 am and I realized that my  76-year-old mother was at yoga, or bobbing around in the pool with her gang of Barbara’s, she being one of the three of them. There are other ladies who workout in the pool, often at the same time as she, Gloria’s and Ruth’s. Pleasant 60 and 70-somethings who bounce around to the strains of Fergie and Lady Gaga, while discussing last nights elimination on Dancing with the Stars and the happenings around town and in their families. My mother has become quite dedicated to her workouts, going faithfully three to four times a week. This, coming from a woman who once told a physical therapist that she wasn’t opposed to exercise “as long as it doesn’t make me sweat.”

I knew she wouldn’t be home for a while, so, I turned the car around and left, feeling quite sorry for myself. I had driven to her house to await the results of a chest x-ray, ordered by my PCP after she listened to my raspy lungs. By the way, if someone says, “Ohhh, that’s not good” when they have a stethoscope in their ears, and on your chest, it’s not usually a good thing. Having been sick with the flu for the better part of the week, I have not had much of an appetite, but I had a sudden hankering for my mothers scrambled eggs. Well, not just the eggs. I was looking for the whole “Mom experience,” I might be a mom and a grandmother myself, but I don’t think anyone is ever too old to be mothered. I had already seen in my mind’s eye that she would look up happily as I came in the door, one of the few houses that I don’t have to knock. She would smile and say “why, Sue! What are you doing here so early?” then not waiting for me to reply, she would continue,  “I was just making some scrambled eggs and I’ve made too much, why don’t you sit here and eat with me? Would you like coffee? How about some orange juice?” The whole time she is talking, she would be pouring coffee, popping bread in the toaster and serving up a generous portion of scrambled eggs with the efficiency of a waitress, which she actually was, before she went to nursing school. They would be light and fluffy with cheese and bacon and chives in them. She would butter the toast (seriously!) and slice it like a triangle because it tastes better that way. A little dish of fruit would appear, strawberries and grapes and bananas, “just cut up this morning.” Blowing on the eggs, I would tell her why I was out and about so early, while she sat across from me, eggless, with a second cup of coffee instead. Listening while I talked, she would notice that my coffee was gone, and she would replace it while we moved on to other matters, things that made me angry, small details about my children and granddaughter, the happenings on Survivor last night and what my sisters were up to. The whole thing would take less than an hour, at some point I would have received the results of my x-ray by phone and would leave to pick up my prescription. I would have gone home with a full belly and a big head, compliments having been tossed at me like rice at a wedding. This was the “Mom experience” I was hoping for. Who but your mother, wants to hear a story with you as the hero? Who else actually loves to hear you brag? Who else could be so undoubtedly in your corner when you are wronged and yet still caution you to not lose your temper and be too brash? Moms feed you physically, emotionally and spiritually. You strut out of their house, fluffed and puffed, as confident as a two-year old that you are loved.

Sadly, with out my “mom experience” to feed me, I turned the car to McDonald’s for hot cakes, a disappointing second but the only thing that seemed about as comforting as her scrambled eggs. I felt sorry for myself for only a minute, as I remembered how many of my friends, and my husband, who have lost their mothers, my mother herself lost hers when she was 13. I am grateful for our texts and visits, our lunches out and for an occasional breakfast at her house. I am thankful for her and for the example she has set for my sisters and me, and also, for her scrambled eggs.