Some months ago, I looked around at school pickup. I always look around for parents careening through the parking lot, wild children running freed from the confines of school, but on this particular day I was really seeing something.
When asked how old my parents were while I was growing up, I remember responding 45 or 46. I’m not even sure if I allotted each of them one age but grouped them together. I remember they even unnaturally stayed those ages for some time in my mind. Looking around at the parents of the school, I was suddenly acutely aware of their appearances. They were attractive people, sure, and by and large well-manicured and in some cases preserved as it’s a well to do area, but all had the same look. Not middle aged, but certainly they had heard of it. Trendy clothes, fitted, highlighted hair, goose company jackets, but there was something about their eyes. Again, not old, but tired. Something about their jaw, not sagging, but rigid against the inevitability of it all. They looked, well, like parents. Well, duh. They are. They weren’t enjoying the congested atmosphere of school pick up just for giggles.
I managed to herd my children through the throng of this group. I tried not to gawk through my new lens. I made it home, but couldn’t shake the thought. This is saying something if you have ever brought four tired and hungry children with you, well , anywhere. Gosh, when did this happen? And how did I manage to scoot right past it all? I’m the same as I’ve always been. Sure, tired and getting out of bed is more like launching a ship these days, but I’m the same. How lucky for me to have escaped, unscathed after all the late nights/early days, endless worries, long days, tantrums, and breakdowns (some mine). As I stood there pondering this, my thoughts were brought to a slow grinding stop. Wait. If these parents are showing signs of aging and I am a parent and my ID claims me to be in that nebulous age my parents were in…Egad. Light dawns. Then darkens as I realise that I too have eyes not quite so free of dark circles. Not the easily replenished eyes of a 20 or even 30 year old working and partying too much and able to sleep through a Sunday, but the eyes of a parent with all the parental worries and responsibilities that keep you up too late and one who also happens to be in her 40 somethings. It is such a ridiculous realization that it doesn’t even deserve the name. Perhaps even a downgraded awareness. Still it hit hard. I was my mother.
Please don’t misunderstand. I have a lovely mother. Supportive, kind, understanding and unflinching in both her love and sense of loyalty. Just recently my mother declared I have a singing voice to rival Julie Andrews. Yes, the world renowned singer beloved far and wide. Two peas in a euphonious pod, we. You may not have heard of me as my mother is the only one to offer such a critique of my crooning. Devotion, not unappreciated, but tone deaf. I don’t just write this as I know her loyalty will have her pouring over these words repeatedly probably during the wee hours as she never sleeps. Hi mums. My epiphany has not meant I have re-envisioned myself with all these wonderful qualities, but I have embraced the fact I am a mother. Not a new mom, not a young mother, not a “you are too thin, too put-together, or too sophisticated to be a mom”, but a real mother. Nope, not that. I’m keeping this clean. Just I have suddenly fallen, leaped, dived, slid into honest to goodness motherhood.
The case for this is clear to me now.
My mother’s behaviour often confounded me growing up. When I said something plainly and my mom said, “What?” and then in the next instant she answered because she had actually heard the first time, it used to drive me batty. I assumed she was trying to make me start pulling my hair out. I now do this all the time. The poor woman was buying time! She was handling three crises, 13 demands, and simultaneously creating a culinary masterpiece for her youngest daughter who decided to become a vegetarian on a whim. Sorry. And I got frustrated when she wanted just one more second to process.
These days my name is being said with increasing frequency and pleading tones but sometimes it doesn’t actually require me to respond. Other times, I need a moment to consider my options and I just buy time until the parental muse inspires. The delay is a survival technique. My mother had it all figured out. This genius does not, however, explain why my mother was seen at times to be wearing only one slipper or sock. That can’t be comfortable, I thought. That is much worse than wearing no footwear at all. When this was at times brought to her attention, she would absent-mindedly, or so I thought, wave it away as if it was normal. Infuriating.
In a fit of worry the other day that my voracious dog would eat something he wasn’t supposed to, for safekeeping I placed the forbidden food in the laundry basket in the middle of the dining room table. And still worried the dog might devour it. Far-fetched I know but so my mother. Still I feel like hiding in two places was right. My mom would agree. She also thinks I sing like a bird.
There have been times when I have had an out of body experience when talking to my children. The other day as I heard a great commotion up the stairs, I yelled, “Enough is enough!”. And stopped cold. I looked around. My mother was three provinces away. That was my voice. Enough is enough. I remember hearing that throughout my childhood. What a ridiculous expression. Enough is enough. Well, obviously. Why state it? Now not only was I stating it but emphatically so because enough really was enough. So wise.
A few days ago, my blood ran cold again. After a discussion with our oldest daughter I instructed her to leave her tone and eyes where they should be. What an incredibly motherly thing to say. I had chills. I kept it together long enough to call my daughter’s bluff, but wow. When did I start to speak like…my mother? For the record, her eyes and tone were heading northward and she knew exactly what I meant. Again, motherhood, I have arrived.
It’s not only personal observations that have led me to this conclusion. At drop-off one morning – yes, apparently, I have great moments of clarity in the school yard – I was struck – not by a car, thank goodness, although it’s dicey. Struck by someone else’s impression of me. A teacher valiantly standing guard at the kiss ‘n ride made eye contact with me and then eyeballed a mother who had her back to us. This mom was dressed to kill. She looked great. Long flowing tresses, cropped jacket, black tight tights – not a typo, those things were a second skin – and heeled boots. It was 8:45 am. Let’s just say I was not wearing this same outfit. Thank goodness I was spared the embarrassment of dressing the same. Anyway, the teacher then looking back at me kind of rolled her eyes and said, “Ha, young mothers”. Ha, ha….wait a minute. I can’t share a laugh at a young mother in hot pants because I am a … well, I don’t happen to be wearing hot pants right this minute. Mine are in the wash. An itty bitty wash on delicate. With this one statement this teacher boldly ushered me into the older mothers’ club and I hadn’t even hinted in the least at the desire to join. I’m young and carefree, just happened to procreate, but that won’t hold back my inner flare and toned backside. I can wear spray paint masquerading as clothing. I’m young. Did I mention I’m young? I might be confused with a student. Student teacher? Grad ..school…. student? Youthful local artist volunteer? Stalled millennial? Not a parent? Surely not the older and sensible parent only caught dead in elasticized waists and my husband’s cozy oversized hoodies? Perhaps I did seek an invitation to this club inadvertently, but dammit, I don’t want to be in on the joke. I want to be the joke.
As a full fledged badge wearing member of the mother’s club, I can feel my mother’s presence as plainly as if she were here next to me. It’s in my words, my tone and even some of my attitudes. Each time this happens I am taken aback and then ruefully I realise how bizarre I once found her behaviours. The mother’s worry bordering on paranoia, the mother’s focus bordering on obsession, the multi tasking bordering on chaos. It’s all here. I am not an exact copy. I don’t have a stylish bone in my body, I can’t decorate a cookie to save my life, and to my great shame I am the worst at imaginative play with my children. I last about five minutes. They say we all turn into our mothers, but that seems far-fetched. I am willing to consider a progression along those lines, but my daughter will never be as confounded by my behaviour. Satisfied with this comforting conclusion, I look around the rooms tormented by toys, books and puzzle pieces and I limp ever so slightly over to begin tidying and wonder where in the world did I put that other slipper….