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I’ve missed a lot of things since Texas issued stay-at-home orders, but not as much as I thought I would. Since I’m an introvert, staying at home wasn’t that much of a sacrifice. I don’t need as much social stimulation as some do, but I do miss seeing and hugging family, worshiping with our fellow church members, and weekly Bible study with a group of women with whom I can learn and grow through vigorous debate. Zoom has been a lifeline, but it doesn’t make space for the same nonverbal communication or brief one-to-one comments that live meetings do. I’ve already started going to the grocery store again, but cautiously. And it’s a little stressful to be aware of where everyone else is—six feet? No? Better move away—and pay attention to the one-way direction signs down the aisles. Curbside pickup was convenient, but I like choosing my own bananas and deciding what to buy based on what looks inviting. I spend less when I select my own groceries, too, but I'm adjusting. Some people miss their hair cuts and coloring—what a friend used to call her “clip and dip” appointments. I’ve been trimming my own bangs and debating whether to stop covering the gray. Meanwhile, a root touch-up will hold me over till I make up my mind. My hair’s now long enough for a ponytail, and while it’s not my best look, I hate hair in my face; it’s also cooler for summer. I’ve learned to give myself pedicures, too. Given my eyesight, the distance from my toes to my eyes is far enough that I can't see the imperfections. Our topic this week is what I plan to do first, when I feel safe again. Since I’m gradually adjusting to new limitations, and actually enjoying many of them, I’m at kind of a loss. (Cynthia stole my first answer, so I have to think of something less obvious.) Attending Pilates classes again is probably right after giving hugs to the family that don’t live with me, but close behind that are the ordinary, unplanned, closer-than-six-feet interactions with people (even strangers) at stores, parks, restaurants, or any other gathering place that let me feel part of a community. Smiles, gestures, and common pleasantries are underrated. --Janice
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I thought the first thing I’d like to do when I leave my pandemic hide-out was to go to QT or a bakery to get a donut or two. But I have passed those places this week as I drove to the bank (safely), and I didn’t even have a craving for sweets. That’s what happens when I leave sugar behind for awhile, a good outcome of home cooking. Or I thought I’d like to go to Starbucks to get a latte, but I’ve passed several of those this week too, and decided that I have learned to make my own lattes at home, sugar free and delicious. And I am not missing restaurants either. I have returned to cooking my own pizzas, and quiches, homemade soups and bread, and with my cooking I have lost weight in the process, not gained it. I realize that what I really miss are the hugs, First missed is a run and hug from my granddaughter, who used to spend her Saturdays at our house, but not since Co-Vid. I miss cooking with her, biking with her, having silly conversations with her and making up stories. I miss her face, and I miss her hugs. Second of all comes the contact with my friends. We write this WiseWomen blog, and “see” each other on line weekly, but sometimes we all need hugs. It used to be that way when we met for an early breakfast together bi-weekly, but of course that changed. We have lived through divorces together, and deaths, cancer and operations, new marriages and retirements. That support was always there both emotionally and physically. I’d like that back again. First thing I’ll do is look for someone to hug! --Cynthia My children have lived a long distance from me for most of their adult life, so this current situation did not affect my Mother’s Day celebration. In fact, since I generally talk to them on the phone weekly, Mother’s Day is not an exceptional day for me. I don’t mean that in a negative way, but feel appreciated and valued by them often. What did make last week special though, was having delightful conversations with both granddaughters over FaceTime. With the youngest, I was able to give virtual instructions for making no bake cookies, which is a recipe that has a long history in my family. The other granddaughter had a small show of some of her recent art work. Nothing like grandchildren to bring joy into your life, no matter what the circumstances! --Jeanette Mothers. Women who have born children. Despite assumptions to the contrary, we are not all alike. I read some essays by mothers this morning and none of them captured my experience as a mother. One similarity I am pretty sure of, however—that the reality seldom matches the sweet, sanitized version presented on Mother’s Day. Who can be June Cleaver? But the image sticks with you and sometimes you find yourself thinking that perfection was the goal.
Motherhood has changed my life in so many ways, both insignificant and profound, a lot of them unanticipated. That may be another way in which many of us are alike. Who can prepare you for it—for the overwhelming responsibility, the exhaustion, the feeling that my body and my life are no longer my own? For love that is almost painful and for unavoidable heartache? But then there’s the joy and the fun and the moments you would not trade for anything. And most of all there are these amazing human beings that you helped into this world. On Mother’s Day I think a lot about ways I failed and things I would do differently if I could. I think I’m doing a much better job as a mother of adult children and a grandmother than I did in earlier years. Of course it’s easier. My children are absolutely wonderful people, who live lives I am proud of and fill my life with love. This proves nothing about my mothering. Terrible parents have kids who turn out great, and great parents have kids who turn out terrible. I think I was probably somewhere between terrible and great, but they are great anyway. Without my children I would have had more money, a better job, far less anxiety, more time to go to the gym or get my nails done, freedom to do what I wanted. I am everlastingly grateful that they did not allow me to have that life. Today is Mother’s Day, a day when I celebrate my children and the profound ways in which they have changed me and enriched my life. --Terese
Flowers. That’s what I always gave my mother on Mother’s Day. We had no money for anything else, and I’d pick a bouquet of wildflowers from alongside our country road. My mother gave her mother, my grandma, flowers too. We’d pick out something pretty at the nursery, a new rose bush, Dutch bulbs, or a new strain of African violet for her wall of violets on glass shelves along her east window. Yesterday’s Mother’s Day amidst the pandemic was no different. I don’t have to think any more about what to get for my mother or grandmother, but I do remember them on this day. Now I am the mother and the grandmother. My son, who lives far away, sent me lilies ordered by internet, and delivered by mail. I like the nursery flowers because they come with a powder, to add to the water, that helps them last for weeks. Every day a new lily has opened, pink, orange, red-orange, a beautiful array. And yesterday we spent the afternoon on the lawn of my daughter’s family, appropriately distanced. My granddaughter had picked a colorful bouquet from their garden to adorn the table, and it was sent home with me as well. The wildflowers were the same as the ones I picked for Mom, iris, bluebells, false Solomon seal, tall dandelion-looking golden flowers. She made me a card with a picture of the ugly virus that separated us, and a Super Virus Dude to wipe it out. She had also picked fresh strawberries for me from their yard garden, remainders of the strawberry plants from my mother’s Minnesota garden. They were small and uncultivated, exactly like the ones I had picked on our back acres. Their flavor exploded in my mouth. Who knew that Mother’s Day in the time of pandemic would take me home to my own mother, my own grandmother, to the flowers and the berries of my youth? --Cynthia I remember standing in front of a Hallmark card rack reading Mother's Day cards, and trying to find one that didn't seem like a complete lie. I felt obligated to send a card home; the guilt of not participating would be overwhelming, but "what to say"? Say: I'm sorry I was not a compliant, quiet child that didn't need anything; that every thing I explored just added to the stress of living: that I was too active, too loud, too sensitive, too skinny; too independent; my hair was too straight & too fine to hold a curl and too thin to make braids. Like many of her generation, my mother married straight out of high school, had babies and worked hard. She had high expectations of what life should be and fought like Hell to try to force reality to fit her plan. The man she married was a narcissist, clinically depressed (hospitalized twice for ECT treatment) and a bully to anyone weaker than he--wife and kids included. It has taken me years of work with growth groups, therapists, prayer groups, and Al-Anon to finally come to compassion for this woman. She was smart, she could have accomplished much with a loving partner, and she worked so hard to try to make a home life. I celebrate you, Mildred Sparks Bethea, for all the effort you put forth. I hope you are finding peace and joy in Heaven. --Donna This is the title of the memoir I'm writing: Mother of My Invention. On this Mother's Day, I can't help but think again of the woman who would have been my mother if she'd been able, if schizophrenia hadn't overtaken her around the time I was born. I'd like to have known her as she appears in this photo dated January of 1947. She was a newlywed, just pregnant with my sister but not aware of it yet. There's a Life magazine on the sofa near her, as she admires the silver service she got when she and my father married the previous summer. The same tarnished silver service that rests in its nicked and scratched mahogany chest on a shelf in my closet. Ordinary moments that likely weren't savored enough in their time.
I also didn't savor the ordinary moments of being a mother as I should have. I remember being impatient for the next developmental stage, not only my children's but my own. I was often frustrated at my attempts to be the mother I thought I should have had, the mother of my invention. I was enthusiastic about my career and was sometimes distracted by it. Somehow, and by the grace of God, we managed to raise children who are excellent parents themselves, and for that I am very thankful. In this pandemic period, a celebration of Mother's Day will be different. I will see one of my children physically, yet I won't be able to touch him. I'll probably see the other digitally, and I won't be able to touch her either. What won't change is how very much I love both of these people. As a mother, and in spite of imperfect parenting--maybe because of it, what I've always hoped most for them is that they know I love them. Today presents an opportunity for me to tell them this. Again. --Janice Time. It is a word that means different things at varying times of life. Time goes too slowly when you’re a child and too fast during the demands of adulthood. Now that I am retired and there are no career or family duties, I have tried to explore new activities and hobbies, while continuing to be a contributing member of my community. Then came the challenge of staying home and deleting social and volunteering activities. Some days I have delved into activities that I’ve had a long time interest in, but just never got around to actually trying or have been able to make items that benefit others. On those days, I do feel some satisfaction, but then there are the days that seem rather endless. I highly suspect that I’m not the only person having these mixed feelings during these pandemic days. --Jeanette |
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