Motherhood and mothering is something I am thinking about all the time lately.
When a person becomes her mother’s mother, the mothering issue is never far from the surface of everyday thoughts. With my own son, even though I questioned myself about whether I was doing right by him, I was still able to see the results of my loving and caring and hugging and kissing and fetching and carrying and cajoling and pushing, so that today he is a fine young man who makes me proud just by being himself.
Having to make decisions for my mother is excruciating. I feel like I’m back on Matthew’s lap, crying my eyes out, afraid to make a wrong decision. Growing my son meant the future. Being my mother’s brain means the end.
My sister and I are even doing a bit of pre-grieving. Whenever we go to her house, we try to clean out something. Sometimes it’s the junk drawer filled with broken steak knives, bits of string, and outdated coupons. A few weeks ago, we went through her night table drawer and reduced its clutter to a quarter of what had been there before. We’ve reduced dozens of handbags into a few good keepers. We found hoards of pennies, quarters, nickels, and dimes and converted it all into dollars, and then we took her out to dinner.
We arrange her doctor appointments, manage her financial affairs, buy her groceries, renew her prescriptions, weed out her old, fraying clothes, buy her new clothes; lately we’ve even had to buy her adult diapers, which to me is humiliating, but necessary.
Frankly, I don’t see much difference between my infant son and my mother, who has turned into my own child bit by bit. I remember thinking for years before I tried to get pregnant about how much I didn’t want to become a parent. I was grappling with so many other concerns in the early years of my marriage. And, even as far back as my teenage years, I was sure I didn’t want a child. My mother, of course, was horrified to hear this.
Then one day the urge to procreate took over and, after a bit of chemistry (i.e., fertility pills), Andrew became a reality. I was so enthralled with this development in my life that I started keeping a journal, starting with the very day I knew for sure that I was pregnant. The journal begins, “Dear Baby.” I recorded my weight and measurements as well as the development details of the baby. I wrote down my thoughts and hopes and dreams and anxieties and fears.
