Hiding Behind Masks – An Unnamed Mother’s Story

When I was growing up, my favorite Halloween costume was Super Girl. It was the first and only time that my very practical mother ever let me have a store-bought costume. I couldn’t wait to tell my friends that I would not be going as a gypsy (draped in scarves and grandmother’s vintage jewelry), a business woman (Working Girl, anyone?) or a princess in a flower girl dress from one of my many aunts’ weddings. I was thrilled that this year I wouldn’t have to wear my raincoat over my costume (rainy Oregon) because the entire full-body suit was made of plastic. But even more exciting for me was the mask. It was wonderful; with blonde, perfectly-styled, molded plastic hair, a porcelain face and a make-up job complete with ruby red lips. For the first time in my life I felt beautiful. But more than that, when I wore the mask, I could be someone different. It made everything perfect on the outside while hiding the real, flawed person underneath.

As I grew up, I realized that I could wear masks in real life, too. I became a pleaser, ready to do anything for anyone to win approval. I was perpetually sunny; the girl who was friendly and fun, but not close to any one person. A girl that held a lot of secrets and a lot of scars deep within. I learned to never reveal too much about myself, because that would give someone power over me and even worse, I worried that once someone knew what I was really like, they would be disappointed. And the fear of rejection was unbearable.

So I developed and wore many masks over the years. Masks I thought people wanted to see. I had a well-behaved daughter mask, an upstanding Christian girl mask, and as I grew into adulthood, I put on a corporate business manager mask and eventually, loving wife and doting mother masks.

It was exhausting keeping up every facade, especially when the person hiding behind all the masks was so broken from the years of pretending and keeping secrets. For most of my life, I had hid from my family the fact that I was sexual assaulted on two separate occasions; once when I was six and another at sixteen. Because of those, I feared true intimacy of any kind and went into a marriage where I never expressed what I was thinking or feeling. Yelling or even raised voices were traumatic for me and I developed a strong aversion to nagging or bickering. In my effort to please everyone around me, I lost myself and my own desires for the future, taking on everybody’s hopes and dreams as my own. I felt guilty when plans didn’t work out the way my friends or husband wanted them to; that it was my fault for not being able to please everyone.

When I was young, I had never considered having children. My own childhood was filled with pain, guilt and a load of responsibilities caring for my younger siblings and endless chores around the house while my parents worked full-time. I wanted to study music and perform, but when that dream died, I was lost. What was next for me? I thought God provided an answer when I met a man; so six months later we were married and I convinced myself that the new dream was to be a good, Christian wife, making and raising good Christian babies and baking cookies.

Unfortunately, the motherhood mask was the hardest one for me to wear. After five years of wandering in the infertility desert and all that comes with it, getting pregnant was the Promised Land. Or so I thought. Pregnancy actually ended up being one of the hardest experiences of my life at that time. Inwardly, I loathed every moment of it, but on the outside, I forced myself to be sentimental and “glow” like many of my friends had during their pregnancies.

When my son was born, I was secretly thrilled that my doctor told me he would be my only natural child. But three years later, I was devastated to learn that my month-long ‘flu’ would not be cured with antibiotics. At the time, I could barely keep up with my strong-willed, ridiculously active and verbal toddler, how on earth could I handle another one just like him? After a second high-risk pregnancy, ending with ten weeks of prescribed bed rest (impossible with a three-year old boy); I was relieved to deliver a nearly full-term baby girl. The doctor and I both agreed that I should never do that again.

For the next several years, I juggled raising two children, working a stressful sixty-hour a week job all while dealing with a husband who was becoming more and more detached from reality. Keeping my super-Christian mask in place was becoming too much and I knew that something had to give. I never anticipated it would come from another brutal sexual assault which would result in a complete mental breakdown and subsequent hospital stay.

My marriage, already badly suffering, could not survive the posttraumatic stress and eventually fell apart. The relationship with my parents became strained, and I could no longer be the cold-hearted executive at work anymore, so I ended up moving several hundred miles away, back to a place that I felt safe with just my children and me on our own.

After that, keeping up with all of the masks became impossible and I finally began to let some go. My motherhood mask was replaced by a new and much heavier one, single motherhood. Surviving each day as a child of God, saved by grace, became much simpler and more real than I ever thought I would allow. I don’t miss the married mask, but I sometimes long for something to hide behind when I walk in the church door without a husband and it’s obvious that life has gone awry for me. Showing even that much vulnerability is still something I struggle with.

I hate how much pain my personal agony has caused my children. They don’t know and couldn’t possibly understand what I struggle with daily, but it’s all I can do to try to keep things going and keep the mommy mask in place. I love my children with all of my heart, but I don’t love motherhood. I despise the never-ending monotony of chores and most nights I just want to go to sleep without my hands smelling like poop or bleach.

Both of my children have emotional delays and if I were really being honest, I think they would thrive and soar if someone else was their mother. A better mother would make sure that they get the structure and help they need. I’ve met so many amazing women that are unable to have children of their own or others whose kids cannot walk or breathe without help. And many who have lost their children entirely. I am awed by their strength and courage. But what I struggle with is why God didn’t give my angels to one of them?

I know that God has a plan for us and I hope that His grace and love continues to be sufficient so I don’t have to feel like I need to wear masks for the rest of my life. Perhaps one day He will allow me to forgive myself and help release the crippling guilt I feel every day about the choices that I’ve made. Sometimes seemingly small things have had big impacts and I find myself getting stuck playing the “if only” game. However, I know that is not healthy and I’m working on it. Finally, I hope and pray that my children will grow into healthy, well-adjusted adults and only remember the fun times I’ve tried to create on the days when mommy was not too exhausted to wear her cool-party-mom mask.

~~~~~

The author to this story prefers to remain anonymous, but I think she presents a wonderful opportunity to talk about the not-so-joyful parts of motherhood and, frankly, just personhood.
It’s okay to own not loving motherhood. It’s okay to say you don’t always like your children. And it’s okay if you, as a woman, don’t even feel called to be a mother. We all have scars and ugliness that we would rather put a mask over than open ourselves up to the possibility of more hurt.

There is no judgment or condemnation here; just support, love and prayers. And hopefully, there is also healing. Healing in sharing our stories, our confessions. Healing in feeling camaraderie with others who’ve been there before or are there right now, too. And the strength to move forward toward a healthier future. And maybe, just maybe, some day we can all be released from the fear and bondage of wearing our masks.

Can you relate to this mother? Are there sometimes when you don’t enjoy motherhood? Do you put on masks to protect yourself as well?

The Story of How I Became a Parent Coach – Guest Post by Hannah at Foundations Parent and Life Coaching

I’m going to be honest. The past 18 months of my life’s story have been hard. Hard down to the deepest parts of my soul. My heart has grieved as my dream of life and family have been shifted and refined. There have been days that waking up and moving through the simple rhythms of the day has taken all my energy and focus.

In the summer of 2012, my life turned upside down. My marriage of over ten years suddenly and dramatically fell apart and I found myself waking up to the reality that I was drowning in the busyness of life. It had been my desire to live with purpose and intention for many years but I had allowed small and seemingly harmless things to take up residence in my life. The constant checking of Facebook, the obsessive following of blogs and the pursuit of a “perfect” body had robbed me of living present and purposeful for each day. Fear had taken up residence and was driving my choices and my beliefs about myself as a woman, wife, and mother. I have known from a young age that I was created for relationship with God and that I am loved by Jesus. But there is a difference between knowing and living. And there is no fear when I choose to live by faith.

As the physical aspects of my life seemed to crumble around me, a beautiful awakening was growing inside of me. I remember walking one day and crying over the sheer disbelief of what was happening to me and to my family. In that moment I realized I had two choices. Either I could wallow in self-pity, bitterness and anger, or I could choose to embrace this season and what it was teaching about myself and who God created me to be as a woman, mother and friend. During this time of my life I am learning what it means to live free from fear and fully present in the gifts of today. I am learning that even when life doesn’t look like what I want it to, there are gifts in that place that must be recognized. By identifying the gifts, my heart overflows with hope and joy. I am learning to put my phone down and to step away from the computer. I am learning to stop being busy and start playing with my kids. I am learning to let go of how far or fast I can run and enjoy the act of moving and being. And I am learning to laugh and to find joy even in the midst of a painful season.

Practically, I looked to the future and wondered how I was going to support myself and my two young boys. My thought and desire had been to stay home with my boys until they were in school full time. But with the ending of my marriage that was no longer financially possible. Late one night I was roaming the web looking for ideas. As I researched different options, I stumbled across the Parent Coaching Institute. As I read the description of the program, I knew it fit my giftings, knowledge and my desire to partner with others to experience an engaged and wholehearted life. Parent Coaches team up with parents in a unique relationship that equips parents to engage in life from their strengths and giftings as a parent and person to move them towards their dream for their family.

I graduated this month as a Certified PCI Parent Coach® and have started my own coaching practice called Foundations Parent and Life Coaching. My heart is to work with parents and individuals who want to build a solid foundation for a thriving life. Parenting and just living in general require being purposeful; otherwise busyness and distractions will crowd out the things that are truly important. Sometimes we come to a season of life where we need to be purposeful in establishing healthy, sustainable practices for ourselves and our families. That is when working with a coach can be beneficial. The coaching relationship is all about partnership. We work together to establish the rhythms that will help you and your family be your best selves.  People come to coaching for a variety of reasons. For some it is when they have a newborn and are learning about who they are as a parent and what they want for their family. For others, it is when their child is school aged and they are struggling to find balance between screen time and physical activity. Some parents finding coaching helps them navigate a diagnosis. No matter the reason, what I know to be true is that when we are working towards being our best self, we give a gift to our children that will impact their future in the best way possible.

~~~~~

Hannah is a teacher with a background in early childhood development and is now certified as a parent and life coach. You can find more about the exceptional Parent and Life Coaching services she offers on her website Foundations Parent and Life Coaching or read her thoughts about thriving daily rhythms at her blog The Daily Rhythms of Life.

 

Being Myself: An Unconventional Mom – Sarah’s Story

I never planned on being a mother. While other little girls were rocking little dolls to sleep I was spending time in my room doing…well, I don’t really remember what but it was important! I spent hours upon hours of my childhood alone in my room and was perfectly content there. Things were organized to my liking and I could read, daydream and listen to music. Basically, I could be myself.
You see, when I was growing up, I thought that becoming a mother meant that you lost yourself. I was raised by a fantastic stay-at-home mom who sacrificed every bit of herself for her family. She got up early and stayed up late. She cooked, cleaned (sort of) and basically ran herself ragged being a wonderful mother. This was my example and while it wasn’t bad, it gave me pause. I didn’t want to be like that; I wanted to be ME.

It has never been important to me to following others’ expectations or typical life patterns. I had my eldest daughter a month before I turned nineteen. Right out of high school and dating a boy my parents detested, I rebelled and married him just to spite them. I had my daughter in the summer of 2001 and, at the time it was strongly suggested by well-meaning family and friends that I should give her up for adoption. I refused. And while I concede that it is certainly not the right choice for everyone, I knew the moment I found out I was pregnant that I wanted the baby. I didn’t really know why, except that everyone was telling me that I couldn’t do it. And them’s fightin’ words to me! I would prove them all wrong!
I didn’t go to birthing classes, nor read any books; I just had a baby and worked it out. Truthfully I think that was the best way for me. There was no pressure to conform to certain standards because there was so little expectation of my success. So I was just ME, with a baby. I parented the way I lived my life; with many mistakes and awesome comebacks.
The demise of that first marriage came upon the realization that my husband was an angry alcoholic and also using methamphetamines. I just couldn’t stand to see my daughter exposed to that and so I did my next rebellious act and left my marriage. I say it was rebellious merely from the standpoint of my parents, who were initially adamantly opposed to the marriage and, as it turned out, equally opposed to me getting divorced.
I took my daughter and moved 35 miles away from all my family and most of my friends and started over from scratch at the ripe age of twenty. It was during that time, fighting for custody of my daughter for two years, that I really came to understand my full potential as a mother. I had always been someone who was easily intimidated and now I faced down an angry, verbally abusive man for the right to raise my child on my own. It is the times like these, when we are forced to do things that make us petrified, that we understand how much we are willing to do for our kids and then to realize how much we actually CAN do for our kids.

As the dust settled from my divorce battle, I met someone new. I had my second child within the context of a second marriage, and found the experience both wonderfully different and yet distressing all at the same time. For this child I was married first (as opposed to being married nine months into the pregnancy with the first one). People had different expectations of me. I was no longer just the teenage girl who got knocked up and would surely fail at any attempt to parent on her own. Now I was the responsible mother who everyone expected to register for baby gifts and go to ‘mommy and me’ yoga classes. Fortunately for me I was already used to bucking the trend as a parent. While I embraced some of these different expectations, I tossed most of them to the wind. I didn’t need all that societal pressure to conform into the perfect parent! I already was a good parent, with a beautiful and accomplished seven year-old child to my credit.
When my younger daughter was not quite a year and a half I went through a second divorce and, similar to the first time, I plowed ahead on my own. Yet, as is always true, it was different this time as well. I had lived on my own before and raised a child. I could do it again. There were no drugs or alcohol concerns involved and we resolved our divorce amicably, without fighting. This time around I was not nearly as devastated by the divorce because I had already proven to myself and those around me that I could be a good mother even if I was single.

So far, through all the ups and downs of being a parent of now twelve and five year-olds, I have come to the conclusion that I am a good mother because I am ME as a mother. Being a mom has not robbed me of the opportunity to be myself. I am still me. I still like to thumb my nose at the rules and be a non-traditional parent in many ways and in other ways I have found great comfort in traditional methods of child-rearing. I have not ceased experimenting with wild ideas like going vegan for ten months, homeschooling while working full-time, trying to learn Italian, extreme home-cooking everything from bread to condiments and making my five-year-old do her own laundry. I also have strict bedtimes and chore charts and make sure they eat their vegetables and behave respectfully.
The key here is that I have refused to let my own preconceived ideas about motherhood and those thrust upon me by society to define what it means to be a good mother. I am a good mom because God made me to be the mother of my children. In His infinite wisdom He knew that my children should be with me and I with them. He knew that we would grow, learn and fight with each other and come out on the other side exactly who we were meant to be. I have not lost myself; I have gained an expanded version of myself.
From the divorces, custody battles, moves, financial crises and blessings, vacations, snuggle times and every other kind of curve or victory life gives me I have remained ME. The biggest blessing I can give my girls is a mother who is herself! How else can my daughters learn to be confident, secure women who will go out and conquer the world? If they don’t have a mother who is willing to be herself then will they ever learn to be themselves? I must model the behavior I wish them to exhibit and so I have come full-circle. I want to be myself and being myself is ultimately the best way for me to be a mother and being a mother is the best way to be myself.

~~~~~

Sarah is currently living in Damascus, Oregon raising her two daughters the best way she knows how with the loving support of her family and church. She works in the health care field and chronicles her thoughts on faith in her blog, Musings of a Christian Black Sheep.

A Life Spent Loving Others – Mary’s Story

Mary was born March 12, 1980, the second child to Dan and Kathy. She became the younger sister and mentor to Leo-Paul (LP) and the older sister and friend to Tanika. From the very first moment of Mary’s arrival, she touched people’s lives physically and emotionally. At the tender age of 9 months while watching LP work with his speech specialist, she began mimicking the therapist through a two-way mirror. LP laughed at the sound behind the wall and then he too began to make the sounds that the therapist wanted to hear. Physically challenged from birth, LP learned to speak, walk and read following Mary’s lead.

When she was four, Mary’s family became a medical foster home for infants born to chemically-addicted parents. She became a voluntary consummate ‘mommy,’ changing diapers, diagnosing bottom rashes, redressing and feeding any baby that needed it. Burping them, burrito-wrapping them and singing them to sleep along with all her dolls and the dogs and the neighbor kids that routinely stopped in. By the time Mary was nine, she was carrying car seats and diaper bags and heading off to another hospital for another baby to bring home.
At 13 she met her sister Tanika, weighing only 3 pounds 11 ounces and measuring 14 inches long. Mary would soon call her “my shoe box baby.” Mary would take extra special care of this little bundle for the rest of her life. When she was fourteen Mary was the only person allowed to pick up and hold Tanika’s medically fragile twin sister, Tanisha. Tanisha lived in an infant hospice foster home and shortly after her visit with Tanika and Mary, Jesus moved Tanisha home. Mary held Tanika close to her for a very long time. She loved Jesus but she wasn’t ready to let Tanika follow Tanisha’s lead.

At 16 years old, Mary’s parents divorced, but that did not hinder her spirit. She was a cheerleader to all around her. She coaxed, prodded, pulled and harangued many people out of some of life’s deepest ruts. Two years later, in 1998 at the age of 18, she started doing foster care on her own while attending nursing school and became one of the youngest licensed foster parents in the state of Oregon. Over the next thirteen years, she would become a caregiver to more than forty children but ‘momma’ to only thirteen very especially loved babies of all ethnicities and all manner of health and drug-related problems. Her heart was always ready to love just one more little one. She was an encourager, inspiring babies who could not feel, to live and learn how to love. God blessed Mary with the gift to love those among us who are difficult to love.

After receiving her RN license, she continued doing foster care and began caring for the elderly and mentally challenged as well; the population pushed away from society. While physically caring for her patients, she also prayed mightily over them. She encouraged them and listened to their life stories. Every life mattered to the Lord and she wanted even those lost within themselves to understand how important they were to Jesus. She sang daily their heart-songs to Jesus.
God also blessed Mary with the gift to share Jesus with anyone needing to know Him prior to their earthly departure. One woman that Mary became especially close with asked her to pray that God would take pity on her and allow her a small place in Heaven. Mary assured her that Jesus already had her mansion built and that He was just waiting to bring her home. That evening, Mary’s friend moved into her mansion built with Jesus’ own hands.

Woefully, Mary had her own health problems. For years she had suffered from genetic endometriosis and ovarian cysts and the doctors had told her she would never be able to conceive her own baby. But when she had a miscarriage early on in her marriage, she was devastated. Not long after, in 2003, at only 23 years old, she was diagnosed with HPV and had to have a complete emergency hysterectomy. They would have never found out about the cancer if it wasn’t for that precious, lost baby.
Mary had also contracted a rare strand of bacteria during her second year of nursing school, which began to attack her vital organs causing sustained damage. The mounting health problems forced her to give up working as an RN. However, Mary’s joy and enthusiasm for helping others did not end, and so she worked more creatively at being a better foster mom to medically fragile infants. Her patience was limitless and her zeal for life inspirational.

In December of 2004 Mary picked up a two-day-old boy, Baby “J,” from the hospital with the intent to adopt. He was a drug baby, so she knew he would suffer from many developmental issues and probably have to have years of therapy and special education. Mary took it all in stride. She loved him as if he were her own flesh and blood. Two years later and two weeks away from signing Baby “J’s” adoption finalization papers, Mary’s husband abandoned them. After that, the state determined that as a single parent she could not adopt any child, but as a top-notch foster parent she would be allowed to keep “J” in her home as a foster child until he reached the legal age of eighteen years old. If he were allowed to stay in one foster home for seven years, permanency might be ensured. Her hope fervently changed to emergent prayers.
Mary kept and raised her boy and for the next four years he called her his momma and she called him her son. In fact, one time in mental health therapy, “J” was told that Mary was not the mom that carried him in her tummy, but he didn’t like that. He told Mary later that it made him mad at God because he loved her and wanted to have come from her tummy! Mary reassured him that she loved him with all her heart and that she couldn’t love him more if he had come from her tummy.

Just three months prior to his 7th birthday, in September 2011, after a state-induced whirlwind adoption process, “J” was placed in his “forever home” 2500 miles from where he had lived and grown up with Mary. She only got to say a quick goodbye before he was taken away by what seemed like the perfect family for him. Under the guise of an open adoption, the state caseworker told her she had to wait six months before contacting the adoptive family. Later, however, the adoption worker told Mary the family said there would be no more contact, ever. Mary’s heart was broken and she felt betrayed by the adoption worker, the state caseworker and his new family.
Months went by and then a year without any update on “J” from the adoptive family or his caseworker. Mary continued to grieve the loss of her son and wrote this to a friend:

“I know God will give me answers in time or when my time ends. I know eventually “J” is going to grow up beyond their control and want to seek out answers to those questions they could not answer, but that I can. So I’m praying that someday he will return to me with memories and we can be reunited.”

Mary did not foster any more children after “J” was adopted and her health began to quickly fail. She was devastated and heartbroken on the inside, and even though she knew that “J” was where God wanted him to be and the family was a good match for him, she confided in her mom quietly that she felt her life was over. She had no energy to date again or make many friends and she was lonely. What she didn’t realize is that through the thousands of people that she touched, she had more friends than many people would gain in a lifetime. Mary’s heart-warming spirit encouraged veterans, the disabled, first responders, medical personnel on all levels, patients waiting for care, patients exiting care, surviving family members of newly departed loved ones and people from sea to shining sea. But she still prayed daily that God would send her a good friend and He answered that many times over as she rekindled old friendships through the internet.

Mary’s health continued to deteriorate with each passing week. The bacteria had compromised her entire immune system. She developed Crohn’s and Sweet’s syndrome in her GI tract and pseudo tumor cerebrii in her brain which began multiple types of seizures. By the middle of 2013, Mary’s lungs weakened to the point where she was getting pneumonia ever couple of months and her kidneys were functioning only at a 20-30% rate. Her liver, pancreas, gall bladder and spleen were enlarged and she could not stop vomiting. The doctors could not seem to diagnose her worsening condition. The disease continuously ravaged her already scarred young body over the years, requiring multiple hospital stays, serious surgeries and demanding test after test after test.
Her struggles were grueling to say the least, but her words were always uplifting for those around her. She would pray for the first responders that were urgently called to her home. She would pray for her family, hoping they would forgive her this ‘one last time’ for making them rush her to the ER when her heart wouldn’t stop hurting. She prayed for the nurses, doctors and technicians and that their jobs would be a little less ‘crazy because of her illness this time.’ She talked to God all the time.

In mid-November of 2013, she was finally diagnosed with Atrial Septal Defect (a hole in her heart) and while she awaited more testing and the possibility of another surgery, Mary was near bedridden and had to have daily supplements of IV fluids and oxygen. She insisted on staying in the comfort of her own home, demanding that she not return to the hospital. Her family knew that under no circumstances were any resuscitation methods to be made if she slipped quietly away from them.

Although she was getting weaker and weaker, she still made the time to email a dear friend from grade school who was grieving a miscarriage. Feeling her friend’s deep pain of loss and the hopelessness of having to pick up the pieces after everything is said and done, Mary wrote this to her:

“I seem to miss my babies first thing in the morning. They are on my mind at noon, around dinner and then again at bedtime. They are the last thing I think of before I go to sleep and the first thing I think of upon waking. Each year seems to get better, but the pain doesn’t seem to go all the way away. Grief is so complicated. I can’t wait to get to Heaven to ask the Lord why He allows our Angel babies to be taken back to heaven and ask Him if we can touch them, hold them and smell them.”

On November 17, 2013 at 12:33 p.m., Mary, our daughter, sister, family member and friend solidly grasped Jesus’ hand and walked Heaven’s distant road home. She left a legacy reflective of a life filled with love for the Lord, a willingness to help no matter the chores because it meant doing ‘as Jesus would do if He were here.’ She left memories of her ability to laugh loudly, heartily and unashamedly. She left memories of her skill to sing off key, on key, or just forget the key and sing out loudly. And, she left us with the memory of her smile; her bright, enthusiastic, encouraging, dreamy and ‘you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me’ smiles. Mary believed smiling broke through armored, tough exteriors and she proved that action correct more times than not. How can you not smile when twin dimples and blue eyes are flashing you?

                       

Mary grew to become the woman Jesus wanted her to be. Her life lesson is twofold. First, her pain-filled illness was God’s rendering of Mary as a Masterpiece. The pain drove Mary into His open, embracing arms. He nestled her there, spoke loving kindness and mercy over her there, healed her a bit and returned her back to us. He honed her as only the Maker can. And secondly, her mother’s heart loved first her babies, but also that same heart loved the disabled, the hard-wrought, the lost and the found. Her mother’s heart beat with life for all connecting with her. Be rendered to God. Connect love with others’ heart beats.

Mary is whole, healthy and perfect in eternity. She is in heaven holding her angel babies and every other angel child up there. She is singing praises with the saints and dancing with her Savior. Her amazing, selfless personality is there blessing everyone in the next life.  And we, her family and friends still on earth, rejoice in the fact that we will one day see her face again. She will be there by Jesus’ side as one of the first to welcome us when we journey home as well.

~~~~~

In loving memory of Mary Jo Lippincott, March 12, 1980 – November 17, 2013.
To see her memory slideshow, please click here.

Grown to Mother – Kara’s Story

When I was very little, there were many things I wanted to be when I grew up, from Wonder Woman to a Charlie’s Angel to a garbage man. I always thought I would be something other than just a wife and mother. This was instilled in me by my own mother. But when someone asked who I wanted to be like when I grew up, I knew that I wanted to be like my grandmother. She was always kind, remembered everyone’s birthday; she crocheted doilies and sat in her rocking chair and was always ready to hug me when we visited. Everyone in the family loved her and considering she’d had 11 children, and by 1986, 44 grandchildren and 44 great grandchildren (a much larger number now), that was no small thing. I wanted to be the recipient of that vast amount of love and I wanted to always be smiling, never angry or sad. To me, my grandma represented unending love and happiness. Of course I could not comprehend as a child how much she had struggled in her life and I never saw it on her face until she learned that she was dying. It was as if all the years of poverty, pregnancy, hard work and worry had revisited itself on her face at the age of 85, and the realization that the love she had given and received would not earn her immortality was too much to bear. After she died, on my eighteenth birthday, I idolized her even more for having hidden those years of struggle for so long, never putting it on anyone else.

My mother could not compete with that as I grew up. She had worked her whole life; first on a Minnesota farm as a child, taking care of three younger brothers, and then as a waitress, a stewardess and eventually an employee of the Southern Pacific Railroad, where she met my father. By 1986, she was a high-level supervisor for the State of California’s Department of Justice and proud to say that she made more money than my father. She warned me to never be dependent on anyone for money or for happiness. “No one can be everything to anyone,” she would say. “Eventually even the best of men will disappoint you and then you will need to find ways to make yourself happy.” Much of this view had been born out of seeing my grandmother on a farm, pregnant or nursing for twenty straight years with a husband who was a lousy farmer and a difficult father. Ten of her eleven babies were born at home, one of whom was 14 pounds and caused her to be sick for months after delivery. As we all do, my grandma found joy in her children, but also great difficulty, due to her lack of options. And while my mom had seen the years my grandma suffered, I had only seen her rocking, crocheting and smiling.

Feminism was not an issue of debate in our house; it was assumed that women should have the same opportunities as men and have reproductive choices. Again, Mom had seen what life was like for women without these rights. In 1968, at thirty-five years old with a fifteen year-old son, my mother was surprised to find out that she was pregnant with me. She was a full-time working woman with very limited maternity leave, so I was put in daycare at three weeks old and stayed with one babysitter or another until I was ten. She decided to go back to school while maintaining her full-time job in 1973, and by 1986 she had a Bachelor’s Degree in English.

I felt quite deprived of her as a little girl and it didn’t matter how many vacations, mini-golf games or trips to the mall we took together, I always wanted more attention. I pestered her every minute I had with her; in the mornings, the evenings and on weekends. My mom would tell me how she had to fight ten other siblings to get any alone time with her mother, even though my grandma never worked off the farm. She thought I was getting more attention and more things than any child could want. After all, every other mom in my neighborhood worked, as well as almost every woman in my extended family. Staying home with children was seen as an option only for the very wealthy or the exceedingly poor. Why, my mother thought, would anyone do that when they could work outside the home? Her generation had secured a place for women in the workforce and staying home, financially-dependent on a man, seemed like a terrible step backward.

My parents were not religious. The subject of religion honestly didn’t come up in discussion in my house. No one told me not to believe in God, but we never went to church, or Mass, and all holidays were secular. My primary babysitter was Lutheran and I had two good friends who were Catholic. Some of my Great Aunts were 7^th Day Adventist and I lived in a black neighborhood, where many of our neighbors were Baptist. I joined a Baptist church at eleven years old and quit going by twelve. What struck me was that each religious friend or family member positively knew they were going to heaven when they died, but each was also sure that my other friends were not. I once asked at Sunday school whether my father, who was not religious, but a good man, would go to heaven when he died, and the answer was “no.” So I began to ask, “How does anyone know who else will go to heaven?” As an adult, I did not choose to be atheist. I am simply unpersuaded by religious arguments, in the same way that many Christians are unpersuaded by Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon. They did not choose not to be Mormons; they are just not convinced that he was a recent prophet. And so I remain unpersuaded.

When it came to Mothering, as a feminist and an atheist, I had no set rules or traditions or texts to instruct me as to what I should do. Even though my grandmother, my mother and I haven’t any religious notions of what a mother should be, they both taught me to have a solid innate belief of what a mother should be; kind, understanding, loving and when necessary, demanding.

Despite my grandmother’s hard work and my mother’s independence and career, when I became a mother at twenty-eight in 1995, I decided to stay home to raise my babies myself. My husband’s work was very demanding with twelve-hour graveyard shifts and we only had one car for several years. We lived in small apartments until we bought a small house. Having only worked in secretarial positions, I told my mom that I just couldn’t see any job as satisfying as watching my children grow every day. “You may change your mind about that,” she replied. “It may not turn out to be as satisfying as you think.” Even so, I determined that I should raise my children based on empirical evidence. I knew from experience that babysitters often think of the kids they watch merely as paychecks; that they instill in them their own ideas of God, morality and politics and they make them eat lima beans even if their moms don’t. Who could I trust to love my kids and teach them better than me? No one. I also worried that I would never know how my child’s day was in daycare until they could talk. A baby can’t tell you he was shaken to quiet him, or how much Benedryl she was given so that she would nap, or whether that bruise really came from a stumble while learning to walk. Until a child can speak, you don’t know. And even then, if you do learn something awful has happened, it’s too late. So I made the firm decision that I would stay home. Over time I was able to babysit other children for a little extra income and prove that it could be done with love and compassion. And, contrary to what my mother said, it was satisfying. Until it wasn’t.

As much as I wanted and loved each of my three babies, I have found that my mom was right. It has not always been satisfying. She saw while growing up the eighth of eleven children that most of motherhood is hard, emotionally-draining work. Changing diapers for the first week may be adorable, but if you’ve had more than one child, you know fairly quickly that the third or fourth year of diapering is messy and tedious. Children are also relentless in their demands and their basic needs and pregnancies don’t always go smoothly. I found that after fifty-three hours of labor and an emergency caesarian my body did not know how to deliver a baby instinctively. I don’t think the medical community takes into consideration just how traumatic pregnancy and delivery can be for many women. They may say that post-partum depression is chemical, but it is just one of many extremes a mother’s body and mental state suffers in nine short months. And if you are a woman for whom motherhood and bonding does not come easily; if you are desperately poor or if you have no partner to help you, you can become very isolated very quickly. What comes naturally to most parents doesn’t come to us all, and babies suffer when this is the case.

My mother was also right that it was a mistake financially for me to be dependent on another person. Even a perfect couple can have insurmountable difficulties and my husband and I were not close to perfect. After seventeen years of marriage and for a variety of reasons, my husband decided he wanted a divorce. I never expected this would happen, as few people do, and it remains the one great disaster of my life and my kids’ lives.

I know that the title of this grouping of essays is Made to Mother, but as an atheist and evolutionist, the only issue I take with it is that the word, “made,” implies a Maker. Instead, I believe that I have grown to Mother. When I first held my baby Austin, I finally knew why my arms were the way they were. They were shaped to hold him. I see my daughter, now 10, cradle her cat and rock her to soothe her. But a cat is never rocked in the cat world. Her mother did not hold her and rock her and hum to her. My daughter does this instinctively because she is growing to become a mother, and someday, she will learn that these actions are meant for babies.

I finally understood the purpose of my body. When the breast milk comes, it finally makes sense. When you pat the baby over your shoulder, it finally makes sense. This is what my body is supposed to do. This is how humans have survived for millennia. A baby can’t see clearly, and so seeks out the two eyes and mouth of its mother. We never lose this instinct to find faces; in mountains, on toast and even on Mars. A baby smiles and is rewarded with smiles, cooing and praise, and so it learns to smile again. Newborns grasp a finger because as primates, we evolved from having fur and babies had to grab on and enjoy the ride. As mothers, we feel this beautiful happiness in caring for a newborn, so that we will bond sufficiently with them before they grow into toddlers. This bonding must sustain us for eighteen years; a very long time compared to the rest of the animal world. Mothers have existed since humans have existed, and certainly our methods of mothering are different across the ages and across the world. But the desire to nurture, to mother is almost universal. It is not the same for fathers; they have evolved to deal with different aspects of parenthood.

It’s been 114 years since my grandmother was born, and the issues surrounding motherhood and mothering have changed greatly. Birth control or saying, “No,” to your husband, or working for a decent wage were not options for my grandmother. My mother has often said that if birth control was around in 1932, she would have never been born. She does not say this arrogantly, as if she had no right to live, but with sorrow for her mother. Knowing that her very existence was a tremendous burden on the one woman she loved the most has been hard for my mother to live with. And yet my grandma never put that burden upon my mom or any of her children. My mom may not have been a conscious choice, but she was loved and wanted. She raised me in a different time, a time of choices for women. When people tell me that women shouldn’t work, shouldn’t put their kids in daycare and have an obligation to stay home, I think of my mother. While she got great satisfaction from raising my brother and me, she also loved to work and I would never want to take that away from her. How selfish a notion, that my life should have caused my mother to limit her education, ambition or independence in any way. And because of her skills and financial prowess, my divorce has not landed my children and me in a shelter.

What I learned from my grandmother and mother is that there is no one right way to mother a child. Each mother must take advantage of the options afforded to her in her time, place and circumstance and according to her personality. Do what works for you, your children and your family. My Mom played on the farm. My brother got to watch TV. I got to play Ms. Pacman. My kids have every Lego kit we could afford. Enjoy them, your husband, your friends and yourself, and like the baby-bonding, it can sustain you through the inevitable times of uncertainty and insecurity.

I chose to stay home and I hope I’ve done a good job raising my children, but now it’s time for me to become independent, by circumstance and by choice. I trust my kids will understand, particularly when it’s their turn to parent. I still would like to be like grandma someday, rocking, crocheting and smiling, with open arms and no trace of past worries on my face. But first, I need to be like my mom, with an education and a steady job that I enjoy. How lucky I’ve been to be loved and influenced by both women.

~~~~~

Kara was born in 1968 and raised in Sacramento, CA. She lost her father in 1985, got married in 1994 and has three great kids. She moved to Forest Grove, Oregon in 1998 and divorced in 2012. She has studied philosophy since 2001, has stayed home with her kids for 18 years and provided daycare for 8 years. She is currently going back to school to obtain a degree in paralegal and hopes to one day go to law school. Her mother lives on the Oregon coast, an hour away, and they talk every day.

 

A Life of Adventure – Beth’s Story

My mom jokes that I was always a little mother. I constantly had an eye on my little sister and from ten years old and on I babysat and offered summer day-camp programs for local children. I figured that someday I would end up with kids, but it wasn’t something I really thought about during my childhood or early teen years because I was too busy making other plans for my life. Between wanting to travel, write, create art, go to college, have a career and build a life of adventure for myself, I just figured that children would factor in once I was ready to settle down.

My oldest child is sixteen years old. I watch her dance her dance of rebellion and tenderness and not wanting me and still needing me. I ache as she grows and I remember my own dance at that age.

I was sixteen. When the bell rang for third period and the halls cleared, I ducked into the bathroom near the end of the building. I entered a stall and locked the door while my boyfriend paced outside in the hall. My hands shook as I fumbled with the box. I read the directions twice and then checked them once more to be sure before I took the test. Staring at the lines as they quickly formed on the stick, I was terrified and hoped one would fade away if I waited the full three minutes recommended on the box.

Although things moved quickly after that, time stood still. I was raised in a small community where nothing is private, sent to a Christian school through eighth grade and held to the belief that life started at conception. Not knowing what to do, I was paralyzed with fear and shame. My boyfriend wanted me to make it go away and I felt like it would be remiss not to consider all my options, so I called an abortion clinic and asked a lot of questions. They tried to have me schedule an appointment right then, but knowing I could not live with that decision; I promised to call back and then threw away the number. I also feared my family finding out and perhaps trying to force the issue, so my boyfriend and I hid the pregnancy from everyone and continued to weigh options, finally stumbling on open adoption. I started meeting with an adoption counselor and found prenatal care that I could hide from my family.  With no car and no license yet, I made up stories and walked to a lot of places when I couldn’t bum a ride. I poured over the profiles of adoptive parents and literally read every single profile the agency had. I cried and prayed a lot.

Days passed, and then months. I wrote poetry and letters to my child. I hid my belly, but finally confided in a couple of people when the secret became too heavy. At roughly 34 weeks, I broke down and told my mother that I was expecting.  I had written her a letter and gave it to her along with a thick manila envelope stuffed with brochures for parents handling their teen’s pregnancy, support groups, my proof of prenatal care and information about the adoption agency I was working with. After handing her the envelope, I poured myself a bowl of cheerios and sat across the living room, sobbing as she read the letter that betrayed everything she had thought and hoped and dreamed for me. I couldn’t swallow a bite and the cereal turned soggy as I waited for her reaction. She was disappointed, devastated even, but promised to be there for me.

I wanted to keep silent, but people talk and rumors spread in a small town. Soon strangers were contacting me and asking for my baby. I was angry, desperate and lost in my grief as I prepared to lose the child I was growing inside me. My family had made it clear that I was not allowed to consider alternatives. Adoption was the only choice. My boyfriend and I selected a prospective adoptive couple and met with them several times. They met my family and it seemed like the right thing to do. I got my license and a car, signed up for Lamaze classes and went through all the motions of finishing my school year. Everyone told me I was on track for a bright future and that I was such a good person for giving the baby to a family who could offer more than I could.

Just days before my due date, we met with the couple again and signed all the preliminary paperwork.  They chatted about their preparations for the little one and I sat silent as they excitedly discussed their plans for what they would do with my heart when it was ripped from my chest. A casual remark startled me out of the practiced distance I had created; one little question that had never been asked. The adoption counselor asked the woman if she had ever been pregnant before and she answered without a thought to her words, saying yes, but the situation hadn’t been what she wanted and she decided it wasn’t the right time for a baby. I made hasty excuses for needing to leave and rushed out the door, angry tears clouding my vision as I weaved my way through traffic, trying to find my way home.

The tears didn’t stop. For the next two days I hid in my room and wrote and cried and refused to talk to the people around me. I had made a plan. I would give birth, sign the papers, go home and kill myself. I knew the how and where and why. But on the morning of my due date, I woke up from the cloud of grief and pain and saw another choice. I told my mother I was keeping my baby. I called my boyfriend and told him that he didn’t have to stay, but that I couldn’t give it up.
I spoke to the adoption counselor and apologized. I wrote a letter to the adoptive family and begged their forgiveness. To this day I pray that their child found his or her way into their arms, because my baby was not the right one for them.

All of a sudden I realized that I was going to be a mother. I had to find a place to live, a way to care for my baby. I needed to buy clothes and diapers and a car seat and find daycare so I could go back to school for my senior year. And my baby was going to be here ANY DAY!
Never before has a woman been more grateful for a 42 week pregnancy. God gave me the time I needed to prepare as best I could; time for my family to understand and accept my decision. I was seventeen years old when they placed my baby girl in my arms, but I had become a mother the moment I stood in the stall in my high school bathroom, listening to the tardy bell ring and staring at two pink lines.

In a way, it all worked out as I expected when I was a child, but not at all how I thought it would. I graduated high school with honors and an 11 month old on my hip; I earned two undergraduate degrees and completed a study abroad in Spain while juggling playdates, potty training, preschool, marriage, another baby and then divorce. I finished my master’s degree as a single parent with two little ones, then packed the minivan and headed to Mexico for an experience of a lifetime. Now I travel to various places around the world and continue to pursue my passions. I married again and had two more little ones. I write and create art through various mediums, but most often through my photography. I live a life of adventure; I just happen to be sharing this adventure with my children.

~~~~~

Beth lives with her husband Thomas and her four children, ages 16, 12, 5 and 4. She loves being a mom, although parenting is a tough job. You can capture glimpses of life through her lens at www.photosbyejrussell.com or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ejrussellphotos

Born to Mother – Beth’s Story

Motherhood is the only way I can describe my life. It is who I am. Every part of me and each chapter of my life, from childhood to now 62 years old, have been marked by the mothering role I have played. There is nothing that I feel I can do better and there is nothing that has brought me greater joy than being a mother.

I grew up the oldest of six children. Both my parents were very important people in our community and worked outside of the home, which was very unusual in the 1950’s. But because they both worked, our family was somewhat wealthy and my brothers and sisters and I grew up with the best clothes, the newest cars and the finest of educations. The downside, though, was that we hardly ever saw our parents and as such I don’t remember much of my childhood. Instead, I became a mother to my five younger siblings and practically raised them by myself. I was the one that rocked them, read them books, kissed their boo-boos and tucked them in at night. I didn’t know anything different; I enjoyed taking care of them and they adored me. By my teenage years, when many older sisters are complaining about their bratty younger siblings, I was making their lunches in the morning, dropping them off at school before my classes and then picking them up and feeding and entertaining them in the afternoon and evening. I had come to accept my big sister/mother role as just part of life and I never despised it or my parents for putting such a heavy burden on me. In fact, I loved it. And so, for the rest of high school and into college I began to watch other families’ children and work as a part-time nanny as well to make extra money.

It was also at university that I met my husband. He was a smart, quiet and somewhat austere man that rarely opened himself up to anyone. But he pursued me and since I never knew anything about what love was supposed to be, I allowed him to take me out to movies, dancing and the drive-in. After all, he was kind, from a reputable family and I knew he would make an excellent provider. After a short courtship, we were married and I dropped out of the university to tend our home. Not too long after, I found myself preparing for the arrival of our first child. As much as I had enjoyed taking care of my younger siblings and other families’ children, it felt as if my life and heart were finally complete when our son was born and then, three years later, our daughter. I enjoyed every moment of motherhood; from the glowing pregnancy months to even late night feedings and the wonder of first discoveries and milestones of the baby years. Life had never felt so complete until I held and rocked a tiny piece of myself in my arms.
My husband had a very stable, well-paying job so we were able to comfortably live while I got to stay home and cherish every moment with my sweet babes. As our children grew into toddlers and preschoolers, I found myself almost always home alone with them from his frequent late-nights at the office and numerous out-of-town business travels. I was so busy and content with playful games, baby snuggles and nightly bath times all day long, that I didn’t really notice how lonely I was until the children were gone in school or asleep in their beds at night. As the years passed, the excuse of work kept my husband away more and more, but I had no reason to suspect anything awry or felt that I should complain. After all, my own parents growing up were almost never around. So, to fill my hours when the kids were in school, I volunteered for everything I could; PTA, quilting bees, bridge club, neighborhood committees and even took a driver’s education course and got my license!

The years blurred together and before I knew it, my son and daughter were teenagers. It was at that time that my husband divorced me for a younger woman at his work. I found out later that amidst all the late-nights and out-of-town business trips, there were actually NUMEROUS young women. It hurt me terribly, but I had grown so accustomed to parenting on my own and my children hardly knew their father anyway, and so, they took my side. Miraculously for the time, I got custody of them and we moved into a tiny little house of our own across town. In addition to alimony and child support, I made a little extra money by watching other people’s children and eventually, I had so many requests that I was able to open up my own little daycare, right out of my home when my own children left the house for college.
I owned my daycare business for many more years, watching hundreds of children come and go, until I retired just a few years ago. And just in time, too, for just last year I got the privilege to take on a new mothering role. My own kids are now grown and married and both just had their first children, who I get to watch each week at my new “Grandma’s daycare” job! And, while it may be unpaid, being a grandmother and getting to hold, rock and play with my children’s children is different and yet even more wonderful and rewarding in its own way that decades ago raising my own kids.

And so, mothering truly has followed me my entire life and I whole-heartedly believe it was what I was born to be. I really was made to mother; first my younger siblings, then other people’s children, my own precious babies, then many other young kids through my daycare business and now my amazing grandchildren. Each role has brought more joy and new experiences and learning for me and I have cherished each one in their own way. And, although I know it is still very far off, I cannot wait until I get to experience being a great-grandma! There is truthfully no other part I was destined to play in this life, nor would I go back and trade for the chance to be anything other than a mother!