Monday - A Blessing Too Many
Jul. 17th, 2006 03:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermoreToday on my drive into work, I was thinking about my status growing up as the first of two blessing too many.
I was not planned. When my mother was younger and could not get pregnant, her doctor diagnosed her as infertile. This caused her to pray for children. Unlike most of my own prayers, she got a positive response (times 4). After giving up and making plans to adopt, she discovered that my oldest brother was on the way. He was born in 1961, when she was 28. Three years later, my middle brother arrived. Two was plenty, my parents thought. My mother considered them both miracles, and never worried about contraception. While it seems obvious to me looking back that the drought was over, it apparently never occurred to her until later.
When she found out that I was on the way, she felt chagrined, but accepting. Maybe she would get a girl to balance out her brood. I was born 3 days after her 37th birthday. Today, this is not a big deal. In 1969, she was kind of a novelty; all of the other women in the maternity ward were in their teens and twenties. As chagrined as she was about me, she was positively aghast to learn that my brother would be born 16 months behind me. By this point, she was very aware that the drought was over and she needed an umbrella, but her doctor told her that until I was weaned, she need not worry about it. Little did he know. Fool her once, shame on you, but she wasn't about to be fooled a 5th time. As soon as my brother was born, she got a tubal ligation.
"When you ask the Lord for blessings," she always told everyone, "you have to make sure to tell him when to stop."
We took this observation from my plainspoken mother in stride. She didn't say this to hurt my brother or me. We may have been two blessings too many, but we never doubted that we were still blessings.
"But you love me anyway, don't you?" I would ask.
"Yes," she agreed, "Of course I do."
"Good," I would say, and go about my business of drawing her a picture or playing with my toys.
"I have friends who have grandchildren your age," she sometimes pointed out.
"So?"
"So, it means I'm too damned old to be your mother." She always wanted to write a book some day, after the kids were out of the house. She always wanted to travel. She longed for quiet time for herself, which was not easy to come by between two teenagers and two kids in grade school. I think she was torn between her love for us and her desires to do things just for herself, to be her own person.
"I don't care," I told her. I didn't, either. I thought the younger parents of my friends seemed kind of silly and lacking in life experience. I didn't mind that my parents were older. They seemed a lot smarter for it. When I got older I added, "You're stuck with us, now."
"I guess I don't mind," she said. The conversation always ended with a hug and a kiss.
Jeff is shocked that I had these talks with her. To him, it implied that I was not wanted. However, I never doubted that I was wanted and loved. I was a bonus blessing. My kid brother was an extra-double-bonus blessing. Sometimes too much of a good thing can drive you to complain. She apparently needed to get this off of her chest once in a while.
My mother was not a perfect mother. She got frustrated. She felt overwhelmed sometimes. On some days she felt imposed upon by everything that was expected of her as a mother. I also have plenty of memories of her rising to the occasion and being outstanding in the field of things maternal.
Oddly, though, I take comfort in my memories of her at those times when she was so human, so imperfect. I'm not a perfect mother, either. I don't have her here to reassure me that this is all right. Instead, I have memories of her that let me know that if she could do this, then so can I. It's it's okay to be imperfect. I know this doesn't make me any less blessed, or make my son any less of a blessing.
I was not planned. When my mother was younger and could not get pregnant, her doctor diagnosed her as infertile. This caused her to pray for children. Unlike most of my own prayers, she got a positive response (times 4). After giving up and making plans to adopt, she discovered that my oldest brother was on the way. He was born in 1961, when she was 28. Three years later, my middle brother arrived. Two was plenty, my parents thought. My mother considered them both miracles, and never worried about contraception. While it seems obvious to me looking back that the drought was over, it apparently never occurred to her until later.
When she found out that I was on the way, she felt chagrined, but accepting. Maybe she would get a girl to balance out her brood. I was born 3 days after her 37th birthday. Today, this is not a big deal. In 1969, she was kind of a novelty; all of the other women in the maternity ward were in their teens and twenties. As chagrined as she was about me, she was positively aghast to learn that my brother would be born 16 months behind me. By this point, she was very aware that the drought was over and she needed an umbrella, but her doctor told her that until I was weaned, she need not worry about it. Little did he know. Fool her once, shame on you, but she wasn't about to be fooled a 5th time. As soon as my brother was born, she got a tubal ligation.
"When you ask the Lord for blessings," she always told everyone, "you have to make sure to tell him when to stop."
We took this observation from my plainspoken mother in stride. She didn't say this to hurt my brother or me. We may have been two blessings too many, but we never doubted that we were still blessings.
"But you love me anyway, don't you?" I would ask.
"Yes," she agreed, "Of course I do."
"Good," I would say, and go about my business of drawing her a picture or playing with my toys.
"I have friends who have grandchildren your age," she sometimes pointed out.
"So?"
"So, it means I'm too damned old to be your mother." She always wanted to write a book some day, after the kids were out of the house. She always wanted to travel. She longed for quiet time for herself, which was not easy to come by between two teenagers and two kids in grade school. I think she was torn between her love for us and her desires to do things just for herself, to be her own person.
"I don't care," I told her. I didn't, either. I thought the younger parents of my friends seemed kind of silly and lacking in life experience. I didn't mind that my parents were older. They seemed a lot smarter for it. When I got older I added, "You're stuck with us, now."
"I guess I don't mind," she said. The conversation always ended with a hug and a kiss.
Jeff is shocked that I had these talks with her. To him, it implied that I was not wanted. However, I never doubted that I was wanted and loved. I was a bonus blessing. My kid brother was an extra-double-bonus blessing. Sometimes too much of a good thing can drive you to complain. She apparently needed to get this off of her chest once in a while.
My mother was not a perfect mother. She got frustrated. She felt overwhelmed sometimes. On some days she felt imposed upon by everything that was expected of her as a mother. I also have plenty of memories of her rising to the occasion and being outstanding in the field of things maternal.
Oddly, though, I take comfort in my memories of her at those times when she was so human, so imperfect. I'm not a perfect mother, either. I don't have her here to reassure me that this is all right. Instead, I have memories of her that let me know that if she could do this, then so can I. It's it's okay to be imperfect. I know this doesn't make me any less blessed, or make my son any less of a blessing.
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Date: 2006-07-17 10:46 pm (UTC)