Happy Mother’s Day to all of the Wonderful Moms, Especially Mine

I’d always assumed that Mother’s Day was started by Hallmark, but it turns out that’s not the case at all.  There have been various precursors to the spring holiday that can be traced back as far as the ancient Greeks and Romans.

It’s amazing to me how many historical people I’ve never heard of and the creator of the American version of Mother’s Day, Anna Jarvis, is among them. The holiday became official in 1914 and interestingly she ended up spending the latter part of her life trying to remove it from the calendar because it turned into such a commercialized celebration. 100 years later it looks like the holiday is here to stay.

It’s interesting to note that the roots of the holiday were started by her mother Ann Reeves Jarvis, who in the years before the Civil War, helped start “Mothers’ Day Work Clubs” to teach local women how to properly care for their children.

I am blessed to be a mother to 3 wonderful children and I am also blessed to have an amazing mom, who inspires me in so many ways. She is a beautiful person both inside and out. She is a passionate and loving person who gives tirelessly to her family, friends, and to the St. Louis Volunteer Committee.

Three lovely ladies in Nevis

She loves music and has a special knack for entertaining and preparing fabulous meals. We not only love each other, we like each other. 🙂 One of our favorite activities to share is biking in Minnesota. My mom can out ride many people half her age, which I think is pretty darn cool!

break from biking in Minnesota

Over the years I’ve learned many valuable lessons from my mom, I think the most important one is that mother’s provide a safe haven for their children – no matter how old they are. She’s been there for me every step of the way and I know I can always count on her.

Thank you mom, for being you.

I love you.

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Author’s Note: on this Mother’s Day Weekend, it seems fitting to share one of my recent entries in my affirmation journaling project.

I Keep My Children Safe

This may seem like an odd personal affirmation, but as a parent, there is nothing more important to me than my children. Although, as a human being I sometimes wonder if I’ve been a good mother.

I’m flawed, have made mistakes, and there are more than a few things I would do differently. My guess is that my parents and their parents before them feel much the same way.

I think one thing that is different, is that with each generation, at least in my experience, we become more willing to talk honestly and openly with our children about our hopes, dreams, fears, and failures. We’re more willing to talk openly about our humanity.

There’s part of me that would love to be able to keep my children from ever having to feel pain, whether it be emotional or physical. But I also know that’s not realistic and that at some level, painful experiences are part of life and need to happen.

The emotional pain somehow seems the more difficult to handle, both as a parent and as a child. With a physical injury, there are ways to predict and anticipate when the healing process will be complete and we can get back to the activities we love. With an emotional injury, the healing process is far more uncertain and unpredictable.

I can’t keep my children from experiencing pain, but I can keep them safe.

I give them a safe place to talk, to grieve, to “be.” They don’t talk to me about about every situation but they know I’m always here with open arms, unconditional love, a shoulder to cry on, and always, always accepting and respectful of their feelings. They also know they can count on me for honesty and constructive, but maybe difficult to hear feedback and input when it’s needed.

Keeping your children safe isn’t so much about protecting them from harm as it is being there for them when they come in harm’s way.

I keep my children safe

Priorities…

On Thursday October 23, 1997 we packed up everything we owned; I spent the day supervising movers, well-meaning family volunteers, and the cable guy. I kept my eye on the weather and hoped that the rain would hold off until everything was off of the moving truck and out of the cars.

The skinniest of the three movers looked like a drown rat when he carried the last piece of furniture into the house.  The other two stood warm and dry in the dining room and didn’t bother to conceal their amusement as their buddy shivered his way into the house.  I felt sorry for him but was also glad it wasn’t me and truth to be told he wasn’t exactly a speed demon.

It rained non-stop for two days and just when I thought the weather had cleared, I realized the white dots in the sky were giant snowflakes not stars.  I groaned and shivered awake Sunday morning; even my eyelashes ached with exhaustion.  I didn’t need my glasses to figure out that the same was blinking on the face of the alarm clock.  Argh! No power meant I couldn’t make coffee and it might be hours before I could get the laundry done.

Eric forged through fourteen inches of not so fluffy white stuff, downed power lines, and streets littered with tree limbs to get much needed coffee. We resumed unpacking boxes and getting settled into our new home to the aroma of freshly brewed java.

Halfway through the day I called Gina, “Do you guys have power?”

“We do.  Is your power out? Is there anything we can do?” she asked.

“Can I come over to do some laundry so the kids have clean clothes for school tomorrow?”

“Sure, why don’t you guys plan on staying for dinner as well.”

I threw Katie and Jeff’s uniforms, a Scooby Doo t-shirt and some pants for Christian as well as some other necessities into the washer. Gina and I chatted about the freak snow storm and the latest novel by Jodi Picoult.  Laughter erupted from the kitchen and I knew that Mama had just toppled off of her plastic pyramid onto the kitchen table.  Don’t Drop Mama was a board game without age limits and rules that required no interpretation so it was perfect for everyone from a two-year-old to a grandfather.

By the time dinner rolled around we realized that our visit would be extended to an overnight stay.  In the days that followed, I discovered that it was impossible to find the right assortment of clothes for the next day in the few minutes after work and before total darkness.  Kohl’s turned out to be the perfect store to find everything from jeans and Winnie the Pooh underwear to games and toys to occupy the evening hours.

“How long are we going to live at Grandpa’s? Can’t we go to our new house?” Christian asked through tears.

“Hopefully only a night or two more, they said on the news that power should be back in ten days and it’s been seven.”

He clutched Scooby Doo and pointed at stack of sixteen inch Godzillas in cardboard houses, “Can I have one?”

“Sure, you miss the one at home?” I asked.

He nodded, “Can I take it to Childs Play?”

I smiled that ‘knowing’ smile all mothers have, “You can.  Is it because you miss your other one?”

“No… It’s so I can scare the girls.”

Life is after all, a matter of priorities.

Where Do Babies Come From?

I’ve wished on more than one occasion over the past year that blogs had been invented or at a minimum I had been aware of my passion for writing when my kids were little. Kids do say and do the darnedest things and it would be great to have the funny stories recorded and shared.  Then it dawned on me, the recurring theme in my life these days is, “it’s never too late,” and there is no reason I can’t apply it to this as well.

I’ve decided to devote one post a week to a memory and an anecdote.  It seems fitting to start with the question all parents know is coming and most of us want to avoid.

I’ll always wonder what prompted Jeff to stop blowing bubbles in the bath water, peer over the edge of the tub and ask, “Where do babies come from?”

I’d only been a mother for four years and based on the combined wisdom of parents with more experience than me, I had been counting on at least four more years, and with any luck even longer, to formulate my response to this inevitable question.

The crease in his forehead and the intensity of his stare made it clear that I wasn’t going to be able to wiggle out of giving an accurate response.

I sized up the situation and, with great relief, realized that he hadn’t asked how babies were made, just where they come from; an important distinction that guided my response.

“They come from the mommy’s tummy,” I said.

He shook his head, a four year olds version of “duh,” “I know that part, but how do they get out?”

I took a deep breath, “They come out through the birth canal.”

In spite of my hope that such an official sounding answer would satisfy his curiosity, he asked, “Where’s the birth canal?”

“Well…..umm…it’s between the mommy’s legs.”

His gaze alternated between my face and my lap, “Did it hurt very much when they took your legs off?”

Priceless.