Too bad my artist’s eye is hampered by chimpanzee hands. I’ll never be able to recreate my favorite memory of Mom at her best. It was late afternoon and she’d just stepped out of the car after a full day’s work.
Dressed in a straight skirt and heels, she approached my friends and me and, without a word, merrily jumped the length of our hopscotch grid. If only I could catch her mischievous grin and record it on canvas. If only I could give her bright blue eyes that same sparkle and her wavy brown hair that same in-flight appearance. Imagine how many other 40-year-old mothers might find inspiration and wonder if they could exhibit the same joy and enthusiasm after eight hours at the office.
That moment captured my mother’s heart and the essence of motherhood. No matter what else she was– wife, daughter, sister, friend, seamstress, or top-level secretary — Mom was always a mother. She must have had times when she was too tired, too busy, or too irritable to nurture one of her kids, but I don’t remember ever being turned away. I knew she always welcomed my company. She enjoyed being a mother.
Like the rest of us women, she had no idea how to raise children. Even today, when advice abounds, no one really knows how to raise children because every child is an individual. How can you write a formula for each individual? My older sister was compliant and easy-going, but my two brothers were headstrong and rebellious. My feelings were eggshell fragile, and life with me was a series of omelets. Where’s the formula for raising a mixed brood like ours?
