I cherish this photo. It is the final documentation of the pre-mother me. As you can see, I am hugging the soon-to-arrive Baby Maggie and rocking my homemade “KEITH DID IT” smock. I was so wildly happy to be pregnant and couldn’t wait to meet my daughter.

It’s 1973. I am 22 years old. And, yes, those are braces on my teeth. Thanksgiving was the previous week. Maggie will arrive December 4th. My OB/GYN is my Maid of Honor’s dad, Dr. Ruple (In hindsight, I don’t know why that was never awkward).

In a few days, I will suspect I am in labor by the timing of the contractions. With no discomfort, I won’t be sure it’s really labor. I will be invited to the hospital so they can decide.

Oh, yes! I was in labor. (Amazing. I expected to be screaming and writhing, but was surprisingly comfortable).

I cuddled with Keith in the Father’s Lounge. We watched “Star Trek” for quite awhile until the nurse found me and wanted to do an exam. After the long circuitous journey to my room, there was a great deal of commotion about me walking around. I was dilated 7-8 cm and some sort of rule was broken. (It’s the metric system. Who cares)? Shortly thereafter, I was wheeled to the delivery room where these miracles happen.

ALMOST MOTHER’S DAY

You were too young to remember
but I swear it’s true
all living things held their breath
the earth stopped turning
a hush fell across the universe
time stood still

all creation paused
to witness this moment

all of me
gave you the world

together
we were
forever changed

you my child
me your mother

a lifetime of love

My daughters are generous women who delight me in the most surprising ways. Somewhere along my life’s journey, I never really learned how to properly treat myself (except with cookies, of course). I carry a lot of catholic guilt about materialism, but somehow “gifts” from other people are exceptions — especially gifts I would not allow myself to buy. That’s pretty tangled thinking on my part, so I wrote a poem about it yesterday, after some introspection on this special Mother's Day and what it unleashed in me all those years ago.

INDULGENCE

I can't remember
the last time
I bought a purse

decades ago
if ever

I rely on generosity
for such things

family and friends eventually tire
of my embarrassing purse miscellanea
stored in pencil boxes
in plastic grocery bags
or old library book totes
anywhere but a purse

I wait it out until
they toss an old purse my way

so I was not prepared for the
spectacular Mother's Day purse
so daffodil
so summer
and with that "new purse" smell
and filled with tissue paper!

my daughter knew
I would never indulge myself
with such a splurge
of chic awesomeness

I think the real gift
was permission

It’s been well over a decade ago since this story happened, but the tradition it spawned has endured. I finally took some time this week to tell the tale in a poem. Here is Kallie last week, well past age 5 when this happened. She is one of the kindest people I’ve ever known and my love for her is boundless.

INSTINCTIVE MOTHERING

Kallie is five
filled with all the grandness
of a granddaughter

we cuddle on the couch 
as we watch a cartoon
my eyes welling with tears
now spilling down my face
my ravaged heart
too raw from the funeral
to find my way back

what’s wrong, granny?
she asks

I tell her I miss my mom
I used to talk to her everyday
and now I can’t
I miss her so much

she reaches her arms
around my neck
she reaches her love
around my heart
and she waits

as if I am her doll
she gently pats my back
while I cry

when my weeping subsides
she cups my cheeks
with her little hands

Granny, I will be your “Kid Mom”
you can talk to me 
any time
as long as you live  

and she is
and I do

on Mother’s Day
hers is the gift I wrap

As mothers, we spend a good part of life scanning for threats to our children. Not just physical threats, but the menacing ideas that take aim at their character. Nowhere is that danger more pervasive than when they are teens testing the principles we taught them, and considering the cultural values that we eschewed. I composed this poem for my daughters during this period. It was an assignment to write a psalm for one of my theology classes (I went to a Catholic university). I think every mother holds a prayer in her heart for the souls of her children. At the time, this was mine. (Photo: left is Mollie and right is Maggie). Ah, the 80’s!

PRAYER FOR THE DELIVERANCE OF A PREPPY

Save her Lord, please hear my plea,
She’s just thirteen, this cannot be!

Already I can see the signs
Of advertising’s snare
Seducing her to get a perm
Or mousse her bleach blonde hair.

They’ve sold her on a frosted gloss
To lightly tint her lips,
And special jeans by Bennetton
To minimize her hips.

A jacket by Esprit they say,
A T-shirt made by Guess,
Some guy in New York’s sitting back
Deciding how she’ll dress.

But fashion’s not the only thing
That steals her life away,
There’s rock n’ roll on MTV
And phone calls on three-way.

She needs some Reeboks for her feet,
Six swatches for her arms,
Red Coca-Cola underwear,
And sterling silver charms.

She thinks she needs a credit card,
She thinks she needs a car,
She has to have a condo,
And sleep with a rock star.

There’s nothing that prepares her
For the life that lies ahead.
Fifth Avenue’s slick marketers
Will stalk her till she’s dead.

Touch her with your spirit, Lord,
And open up her eyes,
Give her strength to stand alone,
And see the sellers’ lies.

Let her hold a baby, Lord,
That’s so hungry it won’t cry.
Let her touch a man with AIDS,
And watch him as he dies.

Let the broken find her, Lord,
An addict may she meet.
Let her find a woman, Lord,
Whose home is on the street.

Let her feel the prisons,
Let her go insane,
Let her be the battered child,
Let her feel the pain.

Give her heart. a burden, Lord,
For the suffering and the chains,
Endured by the forgotten ones
Who haven’t heard your name.

Save her Lord, please hear my call.
Save her from the shopping mall.

Like so many other mothers, Covid interfered with our family’s Mother’s Day rituals. That morning, as soon as I finished my shower, Keith called upstairs to tell me breakfast was ready. He made me his delicious corned beef hash, over-easy eggs, toast, pineapple-banana salad, and orange juice. I dined  while wearing my cherished “Pink Love Bathrobe.” As you can read if you look closely, I am The Mugwump.

Many years ago, I bought matching robes for all the girls in the family and had them each embroidered with the nicknames we had when we were babies. I am Mugwump, Maggie is Pickle, Mollie is Pokey, Ada is Data, and Kallie is Bean. Ada was a little girl and Kallie was a toddler. 

The robes were for our Beauty Days when we all got together, ordered Chinese food, opened some wine, and did each other’s make-up, hair, waxing, and mani-pedi’s. They have become less frequent as the years passed, but I always kept my robe - even through the times when it was too tight. 

Whenever I see it hanging in the closet, it reminds me of laughing till I cried on those most hilarious evenings. Even Marie Kondo couldn’t get me to part with it. When I wear it, I feel like I am embraced by my children’s love, cuddled by my grandchildren’s sweetness. It was my perfect pre-meditated attire for this first Mother’s Day without their real hugs and kisses. No matter, though, we were grateful to be among the living and still hoping the future would bring us all together. 

I was thankful for all the technology that takes the sting out of that separation. A few night’s previous to Mother’s Day, Maggie texted Mollie and me about her evening. She was enjoying snuggling outside by the fire, cuddling her dog, and had thirty candles burning. She sent a photo.

I texted back that I was also enjoying the fire in my fireplace in the bedroom after eating a hot fudge sundae with pecans and bites of toasted waffles leftover from breakfast. I sent a photo. It inspired Mollie.

A few days later, on Mother’s Day morning, Mollie sent me this text. I think she meant “photo OF mom,” but perhaps I’m wrong. She may have thought I was an imposter posing as her mother. I hope you write a poem for your mom — and I hope someone writes one for you.

ODE TO MOM

Your soft cheeks, your fluffy hair
The fact that you hate underwear

Your tender heart, your smiling face
You’re a person and a place

Techie junkie, master cook
Install carpet, write a book

Help your brother, help your sister
Have a summit, charm your mister

Plan a party, play a game
Your wild spirit will not tame

Entertainment, joy, and fun
Your love is warmer than the sun

As I grow, I clearly see
You’ve given all your gifts to me

I’ll pass them down, I’ll make you proud
My ladies will be strong and loud!

I find calm in the words you have said
But truly wish I was in your bed

So take my poem as a hug and kiss
And soon we’ll have our snuggle bliss!