In a new Mother’s Day tradition, today’s post–like last year’s Mother’s Day post–is written by Momalom’s mom, aka GG or Geege. She’ll no doubt be checking comments, so let her know what you think. And, thanks, Mom, for gracing our space with your wisdom once more.

The Evidence of Mothers

One of my best friends’ 37-year-old son recently made her a grandmother for the first time. When I saw Chris last week, she grabbed me and gave me a shake, demanding to know why I had never told her what being a grandparent is like, how wonderful it is Of course I had. Ad nauseum, I’m afraid. But hearing proud and exuberant tales of someone else’s grandchildren can never prepare you for the bolt of love that pierces you when you hold your own. For the flash of recognition when you see the calm, blue eyes of your husband looking back at you from the face of your firstborn grandson, or your granddaughter’s long, slim fingers that are so like your mother’s.

Chris and I tried to articulate to each other why being a grandmother is so special. The wonder of it. The sweetness. We spoke about holding the warm, damp lump of babyhood in our arms; the milky, baby smell; the skin so soft you almost can’t feel it; the mewing, new baby cries that make your nipples tingle and your breasts feel heavier. And what we finally arrived at is the realization that age does not dim a mother’s urge toward nurturing, that we carry it in our bodies as well as in our minds and hearts. And that these grandchildren so clearly connect us to all that has gone before and is yet to be.

After three years of detailed, challenging, research––sometimes yielding surprising results––the ancestry project I embarked on for my own mother is finally finished, and, with a sigh of relief, I was able to give it to her last month. Our family tree extends back for many, many generations, and its branches are intricate and entwined. I followed them to kings and queens, an Indian princess or two, William the Conqueror and, maybe, Ben Franklin. And I was surprised to find cousins, even siblings, marrying. But I was most intrigued by the mothers. The ones who married at the age of 17 and who had 13 children, dying after delivering the fourteenth. The women who remarried twice, having children by each of their three husbands. And the mothers who sheltered and stood by their children while their husbands were off fighting wars or serving their kings for months or years on end. There’s not much written about these women. Historical documentation deals more with conquerors and kings, not mothers and families. But these mostly faceless, unsung mothers produced the plethora of ancestors from which my strong tree––and undoubtedly the trees of many other families––grows.

My own particular branch of the family tree is well populated. My mother is the matriarch of four generations. Three weeks ago, we celebrated her 85th birthday, and almost everyone was able to attend. It was a joyous occasion, of course. We all know how fortunate we are to have her with us. While the older three generations happily ate and talked and teased each other, the dozen excited children whirled and weaved among us. And then, all four generations––more than 40 of us––squeezed into my living room to watch the family video Sarah put together. Everyone sent her their favorite family photos, and she wove them into a gorgeous tribute, a document of so many lives inextricably tied. To the still photographs spanning nearly a century, she added recorded personal greetings from almost all of us and videos of those few who live too far away to attend. Then, she set it all to the perfect soundtrack of Stevie Wonder, The Beatles and Elton John. As the video played, the room grew warm with all the bodies huddled together and warmer still with obvious emotion. With tears in my eyes, a lump in my throat and my eyes on the screen, I watched the flow of my family from the great-grandmother I never met to the nine grandchildren that fill my heart so fully. Picture after picture of ordinary days adding up to an abundance of love, and the overwhelming evidence of nurturing.

Of the evidence of mothers.

I cannot but believe, inflammatory as it may be, that fathers––while being dedicated, loving, wonderful parents––can ever truly feel either the burden or the intensity that belongs to us. Mothers. The absolute undeniable truths of motherhood that are bred in our bones and that we carry in our hearts and our minds forever. This is what connects us to every other mother that was, is, and will be. These truths are the bedrock on which Momalom is built. They are the reasons Momalom has a place.

So, Happy Mother’s Day all you wonderful Momalom readers from Momalom’s mom and the generations of mothers before me. Continue to share your stories. They resonate for all mothers.

So, I’m going to take a shortcut and combine the last two posts.  Because time and again Lust is what has brought me to Yes.

Girls:  Beware.  Your mama is going to tell a few tales here. Might be TMI.

So sure, I was a teenager and suffered the usual throes of uncontrolled craving.  And sometimes these led me into situations I can’t remember without cringing. Like Tim, the super cool summertime boyfriend, who bought a used police car at a June auction, and discovered a secret button hidden on the driver’s side that could make the car accelerate 0 to 60 in an impossibly short time. That car was his prized possession, and when he wasn’t with me, he spent all his time on River Road, racing with other testosterone driven guys. I knew he did this, but always refused to go with him.  On the cusp of both our summer and our romance, he finally convinced me to go. I was in pretty deep by then, and actually remember myself saying, “If you die Tim, I want to die, too”.  Or some such pap.  But I couldn’t go through with it. I started screaming for him to stop the minute he stomped on the accelerator, and the back of my head smashed into the back of the seat. Disgusted, he deposited me beside the road, and continued to roar back and forth for a half hour while I cooled my heels in the marshy weeds beside the river. No matter. He was sexy, and I lusted for him.  But not enough to say yes to that! September arrived, we both left for college, and lust trickled away.  We tried to relight the flame in December, but it was fully extinguished. I didn’t even have to say No.

College brought freedom from parental oversight, freedom to pursue any little lust that might crop up. It was the late 60’s and casual sex was de riguer.  Women were free free free to do what they wanted.  And I did.  Amazing that nothing truly awful happened – no pregnancy, venereal disease, bodily harm..  The worst thing was the diminution of self-respect I felt when sex was casual. One time I was ditched by the soulful poet-scientist boyfriend, and then invited for the weekend by one of his fraternity brothers.  Out of spite, I said yes.  Bad yes.  I arrived to find that instead of arranging a room for me in the girls’ dorm, the boy, for boy he was, had booked us a room in the local motel. I barely knew him, but was still on the Spite Train, so I allowed him to carry in my bag and followed resolutely along behind. The rug was dark green shag, the walls were dark panelled, and the air was decidedly musty.  Beside the huge king-sized bed, the first I’d ever seen, was an ice bucket holding a bottle of Cold Duck (!), and two glasses.  “OK, I can do this”, I thought. Excusing myself, I went in to the bathroom, and discovered a toothbrush and toothpaste on the sink.  “Can I do this?”  I thought.  Coming out of the bathroom, there stood the boy, resplendent in maroon velveteen smoking jacket – I swear – but he’d taken off his pants, and his skinny legs were sticking out the bottom.  Turn-Off Extreme.  Nope.  Can’t do this.  No no no.  Yes, put your pants back on. Yes, take me to the girls dorm where everyone else is.  Yes, there will be no action for you buddy boy! But here’s the really bad part.  He looked so crestfallen, and begged so earnestly, that I agreed to stay the night with him as long as he stayed on his side of the bed.  Which he didn’t.  Egad and end of story.  Spite and pity and champagne – really bad combination.  That was another gg for sure.

There were, of course, other situations that my lust, fed by the times, led me into. My friends and I were all floundering in freedom without responsibility. But then I met John; handsome, smart, funny John who thought I was special, which felt like a miracle. And who saw the me of me.  No secrets, no bullshit, no pretending. Oh boy, I fell hard. Lust positively took over my life.  I spent hours reading Kahlil Gibran, listening to Johnny Mathis, and weeping softly because I was so overcome by it all. I lusted after him sexually of course, because he was a very sexy man with his fluid, athletic walk and straight, strong body, his big grin, twinkly blue eyes, and bright red hair.  But more than the sex, I lusted to have him. And his future children.  And a life together.  So, when the subject of marriage came up, I said YES. Actually, in the interest of honesty, I have to tell you that I was the one who brought the subject up. My lust was just too powerful. I wanted him!

We spent those first years figuring out how to be married to one another, how to harness the passion and use it to build a real relationship.  I lusted after small things like shoes and books and living room furniture, but under it all, or maybe on top, I was seriously lusting for a child.  John was in Law School, and we both agreed we should wait until he graduated.  Best laid plans. A switch in birth control methods provided an apparent gap in coverage and – voila! – I was pregnant. And that was it.  We both said a resounding, amazed YES.  And along came Jennifer, with her big blue eyes and sweet smile; our little miracle girl who talked in full sentences at 12 months (any surprise there?), and was always so determined to be independent. “I know howta” became her mantra.

After a while, I started to lust for school myself.  I had dropped out after my junior year due to Lust Number 1 – John – but I became fixated on finishing. I needed something beside home and hearth to occupy my mind.  So, despite daily responsibility for Jennifer and Alex, my friend’s baby, I threw myself lustily into school, taking classes at night and doing my work during naptime. It was great.  It was hard.  But I said yes to it every day, and somehow got through.

I graduated, John graduated, my mother graduated from nursing school, and life continued until – zing – another glitch in the birth control system.  The timing was still rotten, but what the heck?!  Yes yes yes to Justin, that sweet, easygoing baby boy with the infectious giggle, and crazy lust for wheels and speed seemingly from Day One. Our family was now perfect. A girl and a boy. Done.

Life in the suburbs, me home with two kids, John working 12 hours a day, and still there’s time for some old fashioned bedroom lust.  And, I’m telling you truly, I screw up the birth control a third time!  Only this time I don’t want to be pregnant.  I have trouble saying yes.  I feel fat, and nauseous, and I liked my life the way it was.  For eight months I vomit, and kvetch, and drag my big belly around the house. And then, one night I’m lying on my back on the couch, popping Tums and watching some mindless tv program, when that baby inside me starts to do gymnastics. One minute she’s lying on my right side all quiet and calm, and the next she does some crazy half-gainer with a twist and lands on the left. And then she does it again! It looks so weird, and feels even weirder. And I begin to laugh.  And love her.  And there’s the Yes again.  Yes!  Hello Sarah, one of a kind, straight-shooting, opened wide-open Sarah who still astonishes me, and makes me laugh.

When Sarah was 7, and Jen 11, I returned to work.  And I loved my job.  I was lustful about it: ardent and enthusiastic and zestful. All of that. Yes. But, I was too immersed in it.  My lust took over. And it wasn’t such a good thing this time. Distance grew between us all as I lost myself in this other lust, and let my family fend for itself without me as its rudder.  It’s so hard to say that, but it’s the truth.  My marriage wasn’t as lusty, my children were pulling away, and work was the thing that gave me satisfaction and pleasure and self-worth. Our family stumbled along for awhile, and then John died. Suddenly. Shockingly. Ripped away with out warning. And all lust was gone. I didn’t feel like saying Yes ever again. Or even No.  Life was one, long flat nothing. No pleasure, no passion, no enthusiasm. Nothing. I went through the motions of living; of being mother, daughter, teacher, friend – but I was no longer a wife.

One year later, along came Dick, the biggest surprise of all. A man whose passions mirror mine in so many ways, with whom I am always comfortable, and from whom flows a constant stream of support and love. Libidinous lust rose from the ashes, the happy brain took over, and Yes jumped to my lips.  Life regained its zest, We traveled, and read, and watched birds, and gardened, and socialized, talked up a storm together, and watched my children say their own yeses and have their own children.. My world expanded to become one big YES. Oh yes, those grandchildren. They are my !!!

I am but a small cog in the wheel of the world.  My name won’t be written in any history books, and few will remember me after I’m gone. But I don’t really care. My legacy rests in the yeses I have said to the lusts I have had. It rests in my family, grown up and grown close again. What more can a woman ask for?

Talk during a recent dinner with old friends:

“So, I was at my high school reunion last year and, when everyone started telling old stories, all I could do was nod and go uh huh, uh huh, ‘cause I didn’t remember a thing.”

“Well, I can’t remember my phone number from day to day.  Too many numbers in my life.”

“Yeah, me either.  And how about all the times you run upstairs, only to forget what you’re going for, and have to go all the way back downstairs to remember?”

“Or when you forget someone’s name?  And they lived next door to you for 8 years, and you played bridge with them every Thursday. That happened to me last week.”

OK, you get the point.  Seems like us 50/60 somethings are losing it.  Or maybe there’s just too much in our brains, and we have to filter out the unimportant stuff. I’m hoping for that. But why do we remember some things and not others? Like, why do I still remember the ugly lily corsage my date gave me for my first prom, but not his name? And why can I pull up the author of just about any book I’ve read, but not my phone number? Really, why can’t we control our memories better?

We parents try so hard to give our children rich, happy, memorable childhoods, but we can never predict, or assure, or assume what it is their minds will choose to keep, and what will be forgotten.

Will they remember the trip to New York City, and visiting the Metropolitan Museum?  Or will they remember taking the train down, and the cool little seatback tray their lunchbox sat on?

Will they remember the extravagant Christmas with presents flowing from under the tree all the way across the room? Or will they remember that their cousin ate too many truffles and threw up all over Grandma’s damask tablecloth?

You and your children are creating memories every day, although maybe not the ones you yourself are hoping for.  Their memories will be shaped by serendipity, and happenstance, and their own particular brains; by point of view and place in the family and life experience. And, in the end, they will build a past based on whatever they themselves remember.   And the life you live with them every day will, in large part, inform those memories.

So, they may not remember the handknit sweater you slaved over for 4 months, or the adorable teddy bear cake you made for their 6^th birthday, but they will remember that they felt safe, and warm, and cosseted. That you were on their side.  That they could talk to you, and trust you and laugh with you, and sing with you. They will remember that they were loved. And some day the memory of the childhood you are building together will inform your childrens’ own parenting.  And you will get to watch it all unfold from the sidelines of grandparenthood.  And those are wonderful memories!

My memory now is quirky and totally unpredictable.  I’ve learned to keep an address book with me at all times because sometimes I need to look up my own phone number (I’m pretty sure it’s not Alzheimer’s….). But I will always remember the love my parents gave me.  And that I gave my children.  And that they give me. So who cares if our stories are differentt?

I just got off the phone with Sarah, an excited Sarah, who can’t believe the response they are having to the latest iteration of 5 for 10.  And I’m excited, too.  And happy, so happy.

And, I’m still thinking about the courage post, and how brave it is for all of you to tell the truth, to put it out into cyberspace for anyone to read – friend, foe, family or just the faceless, unknown reader.  It is a courageous act to say, “What the hell.  This is my life.  These are my thoughts. This is important to me. And just maybe it will resonate with you, my reader.”

And boy oh boy, the last two posts did just that. Unheard of amount of comments from old readers, new readers, dedicated daily commenters, and casual ones, like me.

I read them all, posts and comments alike, and went to bed exhausted from the emotion as well as the late hour, but also so very happy.  Happy to bask in the honest and open reflection that Momalom seems to engender.  Happy to be a part of this amazing endeavor my children have begun.  Happy to be a woman living here and now, when such a thing is possible. Happy.

Which isn’t an unusual state for me. I am blessed with a Happy Brain.  Don’t laugh. There is such a thing.

Three or four years ago I attended a lecture by a neurologist who has been researching the brain, and was in the process of formulating some interesting theories on the ramifications for said research on the teaching of young children. And the theories apply not just to teaching them in the classroom, of course, but also to parenting them at home.  It’s looking more and more likely that good old Mother Nature really does have a bigger influence on our children than us parents. Sure, we can mold and sculpt, push and pull, give choices and opportunities, etc,. but we can only work with the basic material that arrives. And, in any one family, the people that arrive can be as different from one another as night and day.

Take my three, for instance. One was wide-awake and looking around, one was sleepy and easygoing, and one was looking directly at me and, I swear, smiling. Their brains were already formulating their personalities, their particular view of the world, and the manner in which they approached it.  And frankly, they haven’t changed that much since I first held them in my arms.

There are right brained people, and left brained people.  Creative and not so creative.  Girl brains and boy brains.  And then there are the brains that see the world in shades of doom and gloom – my grandmother-in-law being a perfect example.  She always looked like a thundercloud, and never, ever had two good things to say about anybody or anything.  Oh woe was her!

And then there are the happy brains.  My Dad set that perfect example.  “Why should I worry,” he would declare with a devilish grin.  “Ninety-five percent of the things you worry about never happen anyway.”  Totally a made-up statistic, of course, but it supported his perennial happiness.  Even when life knocked him around for a few years, he was eventually able to recover his equilibrium, and regain that grin.

I have inherited his happy brain, and I know how lucky I am. I have several friends who fight depression on a daily basis, and it is an uphill battle for them both. And not something that either signed up for.  So, I’ll accept the gift of my Happy Brain from Mother Nature (via my Dad), understanding that my wonderful parents had a lot to do with keeping it that way.

And, having just read Bad Mommy Moment’s !!! post, I’ll just end with a few !!! of my own that keep my brain happy.

My comfy, old brown chair with books and magazines and computer.  Mission control for the Geege.

My garden. A major preoccupation is watching things grow – kids, dogs, plants (my waistline)

My kids.  Nuff said.

My grandkids.  More than enough said.

My honey, me, and the Big Blue Dress on our very happy day.

L’chaim!

I am the eldest of six, raised in a family where a premium was placed on “being a Good Girl.” I learned that lesson well.

Fast forward to my twenties. To marriage. To three children. To visits with in-laws so different than my own parents. Small-town and small-minded.

So, here sits the Good Girl daughter-in-law at the dinner table in their small, overly decorated ranch house. Biting her tongue for the umpteenth time while the Father-in-Law spouts his hometown political views, views based almost completely on the particular situation of the guy down the street. Not global, not national–entirely local. And then he goes one step too far and begins to pontificate about health care–a topic with which the Good Girl’s mother, the nurse, is well acquainted, and about which they have had many conversations.

And he pontificates. And orates. And gesticulates dramatically. And she tries her best to insinuate an opinion or two, but to no avail. He bulldozes over the top of her small, tentative comments. Because he is The Man of the House. And she is only a woman.

The Mother-In-Law flits around on the periphery of the table, as is her wont, serving overdone meat and heavenly gravy to everyone, refilling the relish plate, and urging second helpings of more fruited jello salad. She tut tuts at her husband, urging him to eat, and probably hoping he’ll concentrate more on the food than on his oration. But he’s on a roll.

And the Good Girl tries again to make herself heard, but is bulldozed again, and given yet another local example to illustrate the Father-in-Law’s point. And her blood begins to boil.

And then, without thinking, she flings back her chair, stands up and declares in a loud voice, “A conversation is a two-way street. One person talks while the other person listens and then vice versa.”

The Mother-in-Law freezes, ladle suspended, dripping gravy on the starched white tablecloth. The husband smiles a little smile, nods, and keeps eating. The children sit frozen in their seats, knowing that something big has just happened, but not knowing exactly what. And the Good Girl, aghast at her temerity, remorseful for her disrespect, and embarrassed by her vehemence, flees to the bedroom and throws herself on the bed, hiding her head under the pillow.

What has she done? How can she ever go back?  What will happen now?  She wants to escape, to run far, far away.

And who comes to rescue her?

Surprise! The Mother-in-Law. The one who has said the Good Girl was not good enough for her son. The one who has despised her very existence until the grandchildren were born. Oh yes. That one. She came. And said, “It’s OK. You were right. He always does that. Come back to the table now.”

Which I did, beet red and trembling in my shoes. And my Father-in-Law apologized. And asked me my opinion. And listened. And I was amazed. At the change in him, but mostly at the change in myself. At my courage, albeit without plan or forethought. And what it had wrought.

It would be nice to say that my Father-in-law never pontificated on a political point again, but of course that’s a fairytale ending. But it is true that he listened to me occasionally after that. And that my Mother-in-Law discovered that I was more than her grandchildren’s mother, a necessary evil. I was a woman like her, and could be an ally. A kind of friendship was then born between us–strange and sometimes strained, but real.

But the biggest thing was personal. I overcame, for that one instant, the burden of Good Girldom, and I said my piece. And it felt really good.

a poem from MomalomsMom:

The I of me lives in thee.
I am not you.
You are where I live,
How I move,
What I can physically do.
But not who I am.
And yet,
You often do define me.
Because I let you.
And that is the battle.

Upon disrobing of a night
I stand before my mirror
And contemplate
What the accumulation of my years has wrought.
The flaccid skin
And backfat,
And varicose veins.
The lumps and bumps and bruises and spots.
And I am embarrassed
And upset.

But the I of me is still inside all that,
And it too is an accumulation of my years.
Inside me lives that feisty 3-year-old
Tantrumming on the front lawn,
That shy 8-year-old
Reading in trees.
That gangly 12-year-old
Singing loudly in church.
That shiny16-year-old
Riding behind her biker boyfriend.
That awed and shaken 24-year-old
Counting the toes and fingers of her firstborn.
I am not just 62.
I am all my ages together, and at once.

And so,
Even if the carapace of you
Is less than
Worse than
Fatter than
Flabbier than
Stiffer than
Slower than
It used to be,
It doesn’t matter
Because
It isn’t the I of me.
And there are triumphs still to be had.

Today I folded into downward facing dog
With a creak
And a sigh
And found myself shocked
By the crepey waterfall of skin
Cascading down my once perfect legs.
But, I held the pose
And felt the good sweat
Roll down my forehead
And drip off my nose.
And I relished the peace
That rose from inside me.

And last month,
While jogging on the boardwalk in South Beach
A long-haired, barefooted surfer
Breezed by me and waved,
His surfboard under his arm.
But, I continued undeterred
Sliding my sneakers forward
Arms swinging back to front
Instead of side to side
Like Sarah taught me
And made it to the end
Touching the wall with gratitude and pride.

In your stalwart shelter, I can still be the me I want to be.
I can bend, and jog, and dance, and hike,
And keep up with my nine precious grandchildren.
In you, I live a lovely, lively, lucky life.
And that should be enough.

Thank You.

This piece was inspired by A Letter To My Body In Its 40th Year written by The Kitchen Witch. If you haven’t read it, you should. It’s creative genius. And then maybe try to write one of your own. If you do, we’d love to hear about it!

I never had a nickname growing up, unless you’d count the one strange summer I answered to the name of Rabbit by my preteen campers. Perhaps it was in honor of the two high ponytails I wore. What was I thinking – only someone as little and cute as Sarah can get away with that. My counselor friends all had these great nicknames like The Binker (!) and Sukey and Mikey – well, I thought they were cute at the time, and I WANTED one. Was I un-nickname-able? Not cute, funny, athletic, smart, fill-in-the-blank enough?

But then I became a grandmother. With a vengeance. 9 grandkids in 7 years. Yup. Multiplication (which, don’t tell my students, I still have trouble with) at work in my very own family: three kids with three kids. My son has three, too, you know. And two of them are twins!

Jamis was the first, so he got to pick my grandmother name, although Sarah and I pushed him in the right direction. I absolutely was not going to be called Grandma, or Nanny, or worse, Granny. I am just not the Granny type. At least not yet. And so, as my initials are GG, I became simply gg to all the grandkids. Or maybe that was a backdoor reference to grandmotherhood:  Grandma Gail? Or maybe the Greatest of Grandmothers??

And gg has morphed into The Geege, and Geege-arondack (B’s inspiration during a visit to the Adirondacks), and occasionally Grandma, and I answer to them all, with great pleasure. I finally have a pet name, and it means more to me than my 18 year old self ever could have imagined. Because it means I AM a grandmother, and there is absolutely, positively nothing better than that.

But now I have acquired another name. momalomsmom. A nom de plume. And it is the golden key that grants me entrance to this wonderful blog, and to Five for Ten. What a week this has been. I have laughed (often), and teared up (just as often), and remembered, remembered, remembered. It was lovely. And you women are lovely. Brave and strong and funny and wise amidst the frustrations and pleasures of raising a family. But most of all, you are honest. So incredibly honest. I thought at first that was because you didn’t know each other, and so had nothing vested in a “relationship.” But this week I realized that you DO know each other, just in a different way. That this relationship through writing allows you the freedom to be reflective, and honest, and totally yourselves. I’ve always said that I don’t really know what I think until I hear myself say it. I realize now that applies to writing, too. I’ve learned a lot. About mothering, and about myself. At 62. I guess it’s good to realize I’m still learning.

My name is momalomsmom – or Gail or Sweetie or gg or The Geege.  But mostly, it’s just Mom.

Momalom’s Mom also wrote a post for Mother’s Day, 2009, entitled Tired No More. Please take a read.

She will be moderating your comments today, so send out the love. And the words of wisdom. The reflections, the stories and the truths. We relish in it all.

Happy Mother’s Day, everyone! In honor of the day we asked our mom to write for us. You can call her Gail, or GG, or Geege. She’s famous in our homes and in our hearts. This weekend she is celebrating Mother’s Day with her amazing mom and two charismatic sisters on Cape Cod and, undoubtedly, laughing hard enough and loud enough to keep many of the neighbors awake. I hope you are having a good time, Mom! We love you. We are so happy for your contribution. And Happy Mother’s Day!

Last week I met a woman whose daughter I had taught 15 years ago. She didn’t know me. I reintroduced myself, and watched her eyes widen.

“But you look fabulous,” she blurted with ill-concealed surprise. “I didn’t recognize you.”

No, I haven’t had a face-lift, gone blond, or had a boob job. I’m just not so tired any more. When she knew me fifteen years ago, I was teaching full time, had three children, a husband, a large house, and an ever-shedding dog. And then it all changed, seemingly in a heartbeat. The children grew up and moved on into their own lives, the husband (and dog) died, the house was sold, I moved in with a new partner, and I retired. Seems impossible when put so baldly. But that’s what happened. And, I’m not tired any more. I can sleep when I want, and for how long I want. I have time to read and do the New York Times crossword puzzle and garden and travel and socialize – and take a nap. I have time for my nine gloriously perfect grandchildren. And I just plain have time for me. But I’m still a mom.

I went to hear the Dalai Lama speak yesterday, and one of the principle themes of his lecture was the importance of mother-love, how it is a proven scientific fact that people who receive loving care at the very beginning of their lives thrive and grow far better than those who do not. That all babies need to be held and stroked, sung to and soothed, and mothers are most usually the ones who do it. While I agree with him wholeheartedly, I also know that it was just not possible for me to supply all of that every day to each of my children. OK, with just one child, it was doable. With two it was a bit of a challenge, but still doable. But with the addition of number three, we were quite simply outnumbered. Some days it seemed like we were living in a state of siege. Some days I lost my mind. And I always seemed to be waiting for something to happen… a baby to sit up, a child to learn to read, a young adult to get a job. Waiting for a time when they didn’t need me, were independent, when I could sleep, and “have a life of my own”.

The Dalai Lama counseled us to enjoy the journey, and that is what I didn’t understand when I was in the middle of it all – that there is no point of arrival, that we all, children and parents alike, are constantly in a state of change. That you may have had a beast of a day, been crabby, ignored your precious third child, but tomorrow gives you another chance. That perfection isn’t reality. All we can do is forgive ourselves and move forward, and try to live in the moment, to see the moments for what they are.

I have lots of time now to do all of the things I thought I was missing out on. I do have a life of my own, and that life is good. But I miss the richness of daily family life; bathing three kids in the same tub and listening to them bicker, reading picture books snuggled on the couch together, watching three mostly naked bodies run through the sprinkler. I miss it – the upheaval, the hubbub, the fun.

At 62, it’s nice to hear I “look fabulous.” But nicer yet is to hear, “Your kids are fabulous.” Which they are, of course.