Tag Archive for: Moms

The Mother Lode

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by Susan McBride

Today is my mom’s birthday, although we won’t talk about her age (since she doesn’t act like it anyway). As you read this, I’m doubtless at the casino with her, playing the penny slots, since we make a pilgrimmage every year to celebrate. Usually, she wins, and I don’t. But I try to make up for it at the buffet (free coupon!).

I’ve always appreciated mothers, my own in particular, even more so recently (if that’s possible). I’m not sure where I’d be right now if not for my mom’s wholehearted endorsement of my doing this writing thing. I knew I wanted to be a novelist at 19, when I wrote my first grown-up novel in between transferring colleges. While my business-minded father bemoaned my even leaving college to write a book–and to figure out “who I am”–my mom was behind me all the way. “You have to do what makes you happy,” she told me on no uncertain terms. “And no one can decide what that is but you.”

When I knew what I wanted to do, she backed me up, and I watched her do the same with my brother and sister. My father clearly didn’t understand the need to be creative (well, he was an IBM guy, through and through), but my mom did. Even though she wasn’t any kind of artist, nor did she strive to be, she was one of the most creative people I’ve ever known. She made up songs as we drove to the grocery store or to the zoo (something I do to this day!). She helped me with school projects (never doing them for me, just assisting), and I had the best time creating Conestoga wagons out of shoeboxes and cutting up old encyclopedias to do a map of Big Cats Around the World.

You’ve probably even heard me mention her creative meals. I never knew what I was going to see when I opened my lunchbox. On holidays especially, it could get very interesting. I remember sandwiches cut in the shape of four-leaf clovers on St. Patrick’s Day (and, that night, green milk and green mashed potatoes with dinner). One day, she packed cookies shaped like dog biscuits, which I loved and which freaked out my friends.

Christmases and Easters were incredible. Mom was–and still is–a decorating fiend. And, oh, did we get gorgeous Easter baskets! Each one hidden somewhere in the house so we had to find them. She dyed eggs, too, every color imaginable, and she hid them outside. There was always something to look forward to.

As I got older and as we moved around, I realized what a grounding force she was. No matter where we lived–or what kind of troubles we had adjusting–she tried to make things better, or at least remind us that we wouldn’t be the new kids forever, that sometimes life sucked but that didn’t last. Even when we disagreed, I respected her point of view. I’m pretty sure she respected mine as well.

Just the other day, I mentioned the idea that we all have a gift, even if some of us might not realize what that is for a long time. To which, my mom remarked, “I still don’t know what mine is.” And I said, “It’s being a mother. You’re great at momming.” She laughed, but I meant it.

So much of what’s in the novels I write involves mothers and daughters. I didn’t do it consciously, but it’s there just the same. Maybe it’s because of the amazing complexity of mother-daughter relationships. They grow, they change, they evolve. They’re full of push and pull and compromise. And they have a life-long effect on us.

When my grandmother passed, I could only imagine how hard that was on my mom. I want to think my mother will live forever and see me through whatever else life throws at me. On today, her birthday, I want to thank my mom and moms like her everywhere, who’ve taken on the hardest job there is and who do it with such passion. May you all continue to blow out the candles on the cake for many more years to come.

Because I Feel Like It

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Rachel Brady

Last week I took a shine to doing things just because I felt like it. It started with painting my toenails glittery orange. Then there was an impromptu trip to the beach with my little boy. Soon I reversed course and started skipping certain things I didn’t feel like doing. I walked past the dishes in the sink and let the unfolded laundry wait for later. I deleted a few events from my calendar. Decided I’d rather do something else instead.

Gotta say, I liked where this was headed.

Some of you may wonder what the big deal is here. Aren’t we all free-thinking folks with the ability to choose a course for ourselves? Sure. But something about my internal wiring has left me forever reluctant to hop on board the train to Changed My Mind. Seems like any time an activity has ever hit my To Do list, it has been cemented there.

Normally, I wouldn’t have made that beach trip until all the other undesirable chores were finished first. Ditto for settling in at night to read a book or work on my manuscript. Those things feel too leisurely, as if surely some punishment must be completed first. All this stems from my responsibility gene, I’ve decided. The same one that has me attending social functions out of a sense of duty and obligation, even if I’d rather be somewhere else. I’m starting to change my mind about all kinds of things lately, and in most cases I don’t even feel apologetic about it anymore.

It began with a comment from my friend Carrie last February. After asking me to go running with her on the upcoming Saturday, she told me it was okay to just say, “Maybe. If I feel like it.” No yes or no required.

Strangely, this response would never have crossed my mind had she not put it out there. I’d have either said “yes,” and honored that commitment, or I’d have said “no,” and then felt obligated to offer up a really good explanation of why not. And I never would have been so rude as to remain non-committal like she was suggesting. But having her permission, I took her up on it. And I discovered that I liked leaving my calendar open to make last-minute decisions depending on whether or not I felt like doing something.

It started spilling over.

Carrie was the only person in my cast of friends to offer this carte blanche approach to planning, but I started using it with everyone else around me anyway. I said no to requests for volunteer work (don’t judge me!), turned down invitations to do local races with friends, and even (yes… Mom Guilt here) set boundaries with my family.

I learned a few things. My young son can dress himself and brush his own teeth. My daughters can put away laundry and pour their brother’s cereal in the morning. And somebody else around here has been feeding all the pets because I stopped doing it a long time ago and, as yet, none are dead.

What do I feel like doing instead? Writing.

For years, I waited until everyone in my family was asleep before I started to write. I made all their lunches, loaded the dishwasher, picked up toys, and did laundry–all after bedtime–and then turned on my laptop at nine or ten o’clock and wrote if I had anything left to give. I don’t feel like doing it that way anymore.

I want to write a book this year. A whole book, not a few disjointed chapters spread out wide over the course of months and years. So, twice a week I’ve been leaving and going to my local library for about three hours at a time to write. Alone.

Do I feel guilty? You bet.

Is it stopping me? Nope.

Somewhere in here, there must be a balance. I’m still looking for it, just like everyone else. The day may not be far off that I’ll decide my new M.O. is selfish and then revert to my old ways. I’m open to that possibility. But this year I’m serving others less and writing more.

Admittedly, I’m having a little rebellious streak right now. Still, I hope the Stiletto Faithful will also consider what you’d most like to do in life. Once in a while, I hope you’ll pursue those things too, because you feel like it. No apologies required.

The Mother of All Blogs

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As you know if you’ve read either of my books and have seen the jacket copy, my father is a retired New York City police officer. Interestingly, this is the primary thing that most people who talk to me about my writing want to talk about. The few interviews I have had—some in print, one on a local cable station—have started out with the request to “tell us about your father.” This has become something of a family joke—hey, Maggie, how are the books doing and how are their sales affected by Dad? Do you have any upcoming interviews? Will the interviewer want Dad to be there?

Dad, of course, is extremely flattered.

But my mother, I fear, is starting to feel left out. During one of these joke-fests, my Mom finally blurted out, “What about the mother?! Doesn’t anyone want to know about the mother?!”

Indeed, what about the mother? Let me tell you a little bit about my mother.

My mother was the second of two children. Her brother, John, is without a doubt one of the kindest, nicest men you’ll ever meet. (One day I’ll write about his not-so-dangerous stint in the Air Force during the Korean War. It involves cooking, gymnastics, and R&R in Osaka.) His sister/my mother? The same. I don’t know what my grandmother did to raise two such wonderful people, but she did. And I thank her for it.

My mother raised four children on a shoe-string budget, sent them to Catholic school, and attempted—even though she will admit that cooking is not her forte—to provide a nourishing meal every night. She once told me that her goal was to serve a protein that cost no more than $3 a dinner. Now I know we’re going back thirty years or so, but $3? I don’t remember eating cat food, but this was a woman who could stretch a budget.

But this is not a woman who could sew. My father, the cop, needed new patches sewn on his NYPD shirts. She sewed them on—upside down. He was the laughing stock of the precinct. There was many a time when the hem on my plaid uniform skirt was hanging only to be repaired with a staple or two or a strip of Scotch tape. The nuns were not amused.

Nor could she sort laundry. My father—yep, the cop—was driving to work one day, wearing what he thought were his uniform socks. He had pulled them from his drawer one dark winter morning and donned them quickly, in a rush as he always was at four or five in the morning. He got about halfway to the George Washington Bridge when he realized that the circulation was completely cut off in his ankles and calves. The reason? He was wearing my uniform socks. And I was in the third grade.

But this is a woman who can love. She nursed me through two pregnancies, a life-altering surgery, a long and protracted illness. She held my hand when my grandmother—her mother—died. And she has listened to me cry about a myriad of woes concerning my various jobs, my childcare situation (or lack thereof), my children, my house, my friends, my dog…you name it. And she always had sage advice. She’ll cry with me, but always remind me that whatever I’m experiencing, I’m blessed. I could have it much, much worse.

So, you want to hear about my mother? This just scratches the surface. She’s all this and more and I don’t tell her enough how much I love her. Let this blog serve as a valentine, a belated Mother’s Day wish (I still owe her a card and a present!), and a happy birthday all rolled into one.

And to all of the Mom’s out there–happy belated Mother’s Day. One day isn’t enough but it will have to do.