In all honesty, it’s something I’ve been thinking about more and
more lately.
It started a couple months ago when I went to a high school
friend’s baby shower.
In all honesty, it’s something I’ve been thinking about more and more lately.
It started a couple months ago when I went to a high school friend’s baby shower.
This friend, who was the free-spirit, wild, care-free type until about eight months ago, seemed transformed inside and out.
Instead of babbling about shopping or boys like we used to, we actually had a half-an-hour long conversation about “onesies,” burp cloths and breast pumps.
Actually, she talked about those things I had never heard of before and I sat there in a silent stupor, becoming more and more terrified with every reference to this frightening contraption called a breast pump and her recounts of getting up 10 times a night to pee.
And with every passing second as she talked about being pregnant, and the more her excitement about her new role as a mother showed through, the more nauseated I became.
The thought of going through the physical torture of being pregnant and then actually giving birth is enough to make a gal celibate for life.
But that’s not the truly scary part. After all that, you have to raise that baby. Every single one of your actions has a direct effect on another human being’s life until you die.
So now that the big day for mamas is upon us, I feel it is my duty to show homage to the women who have taken on this arduous task, despite the fears and consequences.
At the top of the list is, ostensibly, my own mom.
She’s fantastic, self-sacrificing and personifies the fairy tale definition of a mother. Other than a little too much nagging every now and then, she’s damn near perfect.
But in a column such as this, it’s to be expected that I say that. If I didn’t, I couldn’t send it to her as a Mother’s Day gift and I’d be stuck buying her something I can’t really afford.
But exalting my mom is easy because she’s so good at what she does.
If I had a mom that wasn’t the Doris Day of Northern California, the words might not come so freely.
Or would they?
I had a long talk with a friend of mine who is putting himself though medical school with the goal of becoming a neurosurgeon one day.
This friend hailed from Philadelphia, where he grew up taking care of three younger siblings because his own mother was unable to.
She was a crack addict who worked as a blues singer in clubs and bars to support mainly her habit, and every once in a while, her children.
I asked him if he hated his mother for being addicted to drugs and leaving him to provide for his family at a very young age.
His answer surprised me and has stayed with me ever since.
“I love her with everything in me,” he said. “She was a total slave to the drugs – she couldn’t help it. But she was the best blues singer I’ve ever heard.”
He eventually left his troubled mother to pursue his lofty career aspirations. He still sends money back every month even though he knows most of it will feed her habit.
But he does it because he loves her and he knows that she loves him. He does it because she’s his mother.
I had a hard time understanding this. I wondered if my own mother had placed a substance before me if I could still love her, too.
I’ll never really know because I can’t see myself ever being in that situation, but given the bond between a mother and her child, I’m guessing my mom could do just about anything and I’d love her just the same.
As Mother’s Day comes and goes, my friend from high school eventually becomes a mother (probably any day now), I continue to call my mom when life has me down and my friend from Philly pops in his mom’s CD when he’s upset because her voice is the only thing that helps, I do know one thing.
Motherhood is hard, whether you’re a natural or not, and moms usually aren’t given enough credit where credit is due.
Dealing with a breast pump alone makes them medal worthy.
So I’ve decided I’ve got lots of friends who don’t feel the need to throw up at the sight of diapers and who will someday love being called Mom.
And until I’m ready to take on such a gigantic endeavor, Auntie Erin has a very nice ring to it.
