In the fall of 1983, I vividly recall my mother standing beneath our apple tree, with the sun filtering through the leaves as she held a rake. “Here, take this,” she instructed, “and gather up all these leaves.” With reluctance, I began to scrape at the ground, occasionally kicking aged apples behind the shed. “I’m ready for a garbage bag now,” I finally exclaimed. “Aren’t you going to jump in it first?” she replied with a playful smile.
Sundays were special. I remember squeezing into the back of our old car, affectionately nicknamed “The Bomb.” The ceiling hung in sun-bleached strips, and the tattered seats were covered with an old rug. If my sisters and I managed to behave during church, we were rewarded with a late breakfast at Roy Rogers. I can still taste the delightful crunch of French toast sticks while my mother quietly sipped from a paper coffee cup.
These memories play on repeat in my mind, shifting and fading with time’s passage. Did we truly go out for breakfast every Sunday, or was it just a single occasion that my memory has looped endlessly? Three decades later, I struggle to trust the accuracy of these recollections, yet I find myself drawn to them.
My mother passed away when I was just 8 years old, leaving my sisters aged 6 and 2. I believed I had come to terms with my loss until I became a mother myself. Suddenly, waves of grief crashed over me from hidden depths. In the stillness of the night, as my newborn son struggled to latch onto my aching breast, I was overcome by a longing for my mother. “I don’t know how to do this. Someone should be here to guide me,” I thought.
While other women voiced their frustrations about their mothers’ outdated parenting tips, I found myself sifting through hazy memories, searching for the wisdom to help me navigate nursing, teething, and my own identity crisis. I recall a moment of anger when I shouted at my mother, “I don’t love you! I hate you!” to which she replied, “Well, you’re making it pretty hard to love you right now too.”
If I had only 8 years of motherhood to draw from, what lessons would I pass on? My mother didn’t have the chance to prepare for a lengthy motherhood journey; her battle with cancer lasted just three months after diagnosis. Yet, she had unknowingly woven a safety net for my sisters and me. We were surrounded by a loving father and a community of family and friends who offered unwavering support.
As the years rolled on, I never lacked love or assistance, but I still turned to memories for comfort. By the time I became pregnant at 36, I thought I had exhausted the lessons hidden within my mother’s story.
When my son was a month old, he began waking every night from 2 a.m. to 6 a.m., leaving me in a state of exhaustion. I could barely comfort him or myself. My husband’s helplessness mirrored my own as I confided in him, “I am a failure,” a veiled expression of my despair. I had yet to discover my son’s laughter or his love for dancing and singing; I didn’t realize how everything could transform.
I also remember a time I threatened to run away, perhaps due to being denied more television or a meatloaf dinner. I stormed up to my room and began stuffing a bag with toys. My mother, crouching beside me, helped pack shoes and clothes, saying simply, “I’m helping you pack.”
My mother was not a mythical figure. I don’t envision her as the idealized version of motherhood, but rather as a real woman—beautiful even in her rusted sedan, playful yet occasionally frustrated and weary.
Although my son is only 2, I now understand the profound lesson my mother imparted: motherhood will never unfold as I expect. Some days will tempt me to give up, while others will require fast food bribes to maintain peace. On some days, I will find it difficult to contain my joy, and on others, I will question my choices. She taught me that these feelings are entirely normal.
I can still picture her subtle, knowing smile as I dropped the rake and leaped into the pile of leaves below the apple tree. She showed me that while I may not love every moment of motherhood, I will cherish more of them than I can fathom, and they will pass by quicker than I ever imagined.
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Summary
In reflecting on my mother’s teachings, I realized that motherhood is an unpredictable journey filled with moments of joy, frustration, and uncertainty. Each experience, whether joyful or challenging, contributes to the tapestry of motherhood, reminding us to embrace and cherish the fleeting nature of these days.
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