It’s a Mom’s Life

I used to be a housewife. That means I raised children. Three of them were mine. Others came and went and were fed and housed, while we did whatever could for them. I also worked, to be sure, often at jobs no one else would have wanted. I covered for lunches at a CPA firm, worked for a modeling agency, did free-lance writing, became a dispensing optician, and worked Christmas seasons at a department store, among others. I was a migraine patient much of that time and that hindered life in a big way. I still managed to bring a camera, with film and flash, to family gatherings, but a lot of those were at my house, so that was a bit of a no-brainer. Everyone has their place, and when you are the one with the family pictures, that’s a place that, like an old Timex watch commercial, keeps on giving. I love those photographs.  

We didn’t homeschool back then. Children went to school. Mothers who “did not work” went with them. I handled a lot of special projects and tutoring. I even had my own child once. He was in a program where he had to invite others to an event. Everyone was asking for him, so I didn’t see him except when he was performing. I was once given the second-grade child who would bite. She plopped into my lap as we sat crisscross applesauce on the floor and I had no problems with her. I realized early on that mothers were in short supply and we could, therefore, exercise a great deal of latitude. “Oh, I’ll go home,” was an option no one wanted. I was once given a book to read to a kindergarten class. It was The Very Hungry Caterpillar. I still remember the magic moment when the book ended and the room stayed silent, still under the spell of the story.

I sometimes felt that my life was controlled by the last person to have a crisis. Friend of my child forgot to wear a collared shirt to go to the ballet? I took him one. Girl needed a costume skirt in a few hours?     “Mom can you?! Her brother is on drugs and she could use someone helping her out.” Okay, let me remake a skirt in my closet into a costume for “Oliver!” By four? It will be there. Then, a child ate mothballs. Could you do something? I should have had a chair with my name on it at the ER. I remember the night I was leaving the hospital after a child in the family was taken there when she slipped on wet leaves and came off of her bicycle on her head. I realized I had only change with me. As I was looking around, a young man seemed to be having his own panic. We took his change, and my bigger bunch of coins dug out of the corners of a messy purse, split it between us, and went on our way. Both of us had learned a lesson—keep extra cash. I ended up with two wallets.  One the children could access for the paper boy or whatever need arose when I wasn’t available. The other one was mine. I still have two wallets.

With children, husband, work, sewing, free-lance writing, housekeeping, tutoring, etc., I sometimes was stretched to get the laundry done. My teenaged son was home one laundry day and he put in the movie Henry V. I threw the laundry down the upstairs stairs, threw it again to the basement, picked it up and took it to the basement laundry room. Before I could start the washer, he called me to the TV room.

“Explain it to me; I’m missing things,” he said, pointing to the television.

I hesitated. Dirty clothes make me anxious, but teenagers do not last. He would soon follow his older sister out of the house. Laundry. Henry. Laundry. I sat on the edge of the gas fireplace. He started the movie. I explained the opening scene. And I sat on the cold ledge of the black fireplace and talked him through the entire movie. It was the two of us, there in the light of the television screen, telling the story of Henry’s victory at Agincourt. It was October 25, 1415, and Henry had blustered and bullied his way to a battle that would not soon be forgotten. It was Henry, carrying the dead body of his young attendant; Henry, not knowing who had won the day; Henry, winning the bet with his doubting compatriot. I worried about the laundry; it was almost as though it was pulling the back of my sweater for those few hours, taunting me for dereliction of duty. I was still worried about it when I began fixing supper. I could hear my son in the basement den. He called his sister over and put in the movie. And he went through it, again, explaining it scene by scene as I had earlier in the day. He wanted to share the majesty that was on the screen. A young man who seldom sat for any reason patiently led his sister through the movie. Suddenly, I did not care about the laundry. I did not care about place and position in life. When you experience the wonder of such moments, you know you are blessed beyond titles and trades.

It was a messy, hectic, life. When the Women’s Movement came along, it was a struggle to find an identity. “What did you do today?” could be either finished an article for a magazine or handled a family crisis over a dead cat. (Not my cat—somehow ended up being my crisis. I bought flowers for the owner of the cat to calm much frayed nerves.)

Sometimes, I would have to dress up and be my husband’s spouse. “Spouse” is a funny word that makes one sound like a broccoli spear, but when they are called for, one must clean up and go. During those years, one of the favorite questions to ask women spouses was, “Do you work?” I always smiled my best smile.

The answer changed from time to time. But whatever I demurred to, I always thought, “Like a dog.”