A Mother's Day Page

A Collection of Thoughts on Motherhood, Having A Mother, Losing A Mother, Being A Mother and Becoming One - In Other Words, A Potpourri of Thoughts About Life

This Hub about mothers, children, and motherhood is dedicated to my three children, GW, CJ, and KC; to my sister (who is also a mother), JWT, and our late Mum (and "Nana"), ECW.

As Mother's Day approaches, as always, it occurs to me that if one mother ever deserved a tribute it was my own.   Thirteen years after her passing, however, I am still unable to allow myself to let thoughts of go unchecked in my mind; because even though I've certainly grown used to not having her here, I am still not used to the reality of it.  Although I'm quite certain I have, for the most part, adjusted as well as anyone ever adjusts (at least when the relationship is what it should be), there are times when I question whether I could have done a better job when it comes to my "technique" of just limiting the depth of thoughts of her to exclude the more "emotion-provoking" ones.
At the same time, it sometimes seems kind of pointless to dredge up thoughts of love when someone is no longer here to appreciate them.

Thinking back to the way my mother and her sisters talked about how they felt about their own mother, even decades after she passed away, I'm kind of thinking I'm pretty normal (for someone who had the kind of mother I had).  Still, my sister and I go to the cemetery from time to time, and I still can't make the connection between the grave on which which we place flowers and the mother I knew.  My head knows the little piece of land is more than this, but in a way, I may as well be placing flowers at the local playground or parking lot (for all the connection I'm able to make between my mother and the granite that bears her, and my father's, names).

Mother's Day, for me, is now about the Mother's Day my grown kids put together for me.   Even after being, and loving being, a mother for 30 years now, it's kind of strange for me to think of myself as the "star" of my three kids' Mother's Day.  Mother's Day is so often about things like pink roses, tea, and - oh, I don't know - china tea cups or sachets (or something like that).    Although I'm pretty much at the far end of the "feminine" spectrum (at least in demeanor and preferences, although not very much in thinking style) , a lot of things associated with Mother's Day just seem to me like things aimed at women older than I am.  This, of course, is kind of strange - in view of the fact that I'm at least old enough to have been a mother for 30 years.

In any case, in view of the fact that I no longer need to put together a Mother's Day for my own mother; and in view of the fact that I don't even really feel like I'm "old enough" for some of the usual trappings of Mother's Day; I thought I would include here a few miscellaneous pieces of writing related to a mother's love for her children and some thoughts about being a mother, sharing a mother, and becoming a mother.

A mother's love can seem to begin at her core, grow out and beyond her own borders and create for her the sense that her love for each child a universe around her.

The nature of a mother's love can be soft as summertime, gentle as a newborn kitten, bigger than the world, and stronger than Superman.

It is what makes a mother suddenly identity with the mother ducks and their ducklings, who follow in line as their mother leads. It is what can make a woman truly understand what it is that would cause a mother cat to be ready to claw anyone who dares approach her newborn kittens.

It is a lack of selfishness that may amaze even the mother, herself. It is the thing that makes a mother far braver than she ever would have imagined she could be and and tough in a way that seems to contradict her femininity.

It is something that adds powerful dimensions to a once singular self. It is something that introduces a fearfulness and worry for a child that is so, so, powerful a mother must bury it so far away in her mind she may almost forget its there. A mother's love is the thing, though, that will make a mother rise to any occasion in spite of any fears, her own wishes, and sometimes her not even realizing her own ability to do that so well.

A mother's adoration of her child, admiration for that child, and joy in having that child both in her life mixes with her instinct to nurture and protect her child and forms a bond, a core to her being, and a world that is called, "a mother's love", and that - although she never would have imagined the capacity for this - multiplies and strengthens with each new child and as her family matures.

Nobody who is not a mother can ever know what it feels like to experience the love for one's child, and no words - not even the word, "love" - can ever adequately describe the gift, the world, and the universe that belong to a mother.

This is a story about being a mother, being a kid, being a sibling, and the general circle of life.

The first Mother's Day after all three of my children were in a position to be able to do what they wanted to do as far as gifts for me went (rather than having to rely on their father to assist with gifts) was a Mother's Day that I will always remember. As my three pretty-much grown kids skulked in and out of the house in secrecy I realized how very much the same three children they still were. My two sons and my daughter were clearly delighted as their secret plans fell into place over the course of an early afternoon, and before I knew it they had created an elegant and thoughtful Mother's Day afternoon for me with a level of taste and loveliness that, I guess, I just wasn't expecting.

They decorated. There were flowers and a new vase, gourmet chocolates from a shop near one son's work, a bunch of my favorite buttercream potpourri tarts, some nice earrings, and a CD that was just my taste in music. The larger gift, though, was seeing them as the capable adults they'd become; and more importantly, seeing them work so well as a team. I think every mother hopes her children will grow up to be close. Those three kids of mine are close, and I know how important that is.

My siblings and I are at the point in life where both parents have gone. When I think of my own sister and brother and me working together as a team I can't help but remember those days surrounding the death of my mother, when the three of us, shell-shocked and numb, went about doing all the things that needed to be done after losing the mother who had been bedridden for over a year and who suffered terribly. It wasn't just a matter of funeral arrangements.

There was a world of things to be done when it came to her house and finances and whatever else there was to deal with.

When our father died we were all young, and our mother was the one to deal with things. Since she would remain in her own home there weren't the issues of dealing with an estate, as well as as some of the complicated matters that came about as a result of her long illness. When she died, though, there we were - just us "kids" (in our 30's and 40's) - feeling strangely united while feeling equally and woefully alone.

I am the middle child and was (appropriately) seated in the middle the day we went to the funeral home to at least take care of those arrangements. To my left was my "baby brother". To my right was my "big sister".

Let me tell you about my big sister. For five years she and I were just two sisters. She was the big one. I was the baby for a while until I turned into "the little one". We played together much of the time. Santa Claus brought us pretty much the same things, although we'd get a few things for our own age-group. We would name the dolls we got for Christmas and play house. (We'd call one another, "auntie" in a very peculiar and high voice, and my father never knew why such a voice and the name "auntie" for each of us was necessary.) As "aunties" we'd pretend that potato chips were fried clams (because we have never seen fried clams). On Saturday mornings we would sit in the living room with a "magic slate", and each of us would draw people and tell stories about our people and then whip up the film on the magic slate and draw more and talk more about what the people we drew were doing.

My sister and I got along all the time when we were young. I saw her as big, and I saw the fact that she was in school as "important" and grown-up. We were happy little girls, and one Saturday morning our father popped his head in our bedroom door and announced that the doctor had called and said we had a new baby brother. He said that the doctor said, "He's little but he's healthy." I've never quite figured out when my mother went to the hospital or whether my father was there and when the aunt who came to be at the house showed up and then left - but my sister and I were delighted to have a baby brother.

When I think of my sister, besides recalling the annual and boring dancing recitals I got dragged to even though I hated tap dancing, I think of two other particular things: We shared a bedroom. One night she apparently wanted to create some magic for her little sister, so she told me when I went to sleep and woke up a fairy would have come and left me a present. I was - needless to say - excited about this fairy that would be coming in the night. I was probably 4 or 5, and she was 9 or 10. When I woke the next morning on the chest that was mine was a peculiar toy (one of the "Three Men in a Tub" I think, and I'd never liked it) that had been hers when she was a baby. When I got a look at what this so-called "fairy" was supposed to have left two things hit me: 1) I was incredibly disappointed and 2) I was incredibly moved to think that she was willing to give me this toy that had been hers most of her life. I began to cry really hard, and when my mother came in to see what was going on and found out about the fairy story she kind of scolded my sister. I was crying too hard, and I was too little, to explain to my mother I wasn't crying because I was disappointed but because my sister had tried so hard to create some magic for me.

Just before my seventh birthday and just before I was about to make First Communion my mother got pneumonia, and there was a question that it could also be tuberculosis. She was in the hospital for several months, which meant that it was a good thing she had brought me to get my beautiful First Communion dress early but which also meant she would not be there to see me lead the First Communion line or to curl my straight hair (which she had done every school night since I'd started school). One memory that stays poignantly with me all these years later is that of my twelve-year-old sister, who wasn't all that much taller than I ( compared with adults), standing directly in front me and trying to get my hair right as her tears fell right past my face and onto the ground. She would be the one to stand with my father in the church and cry as her little sister led the First Communion parade. During those months when my mother was hospitalized she and I would cry every night because we missed her and because we were so afraid she would die.

At the time, our baby brother was a toddler. Because he had been premature he was sick a lot, and he got pneumonia a couple of times. Every time he would get a fever he'd take a seizure, which was absolutely terrifying. My sister and I would stand by, scared to death, as my father took care of the baby and got him out to the hospital. A few times he was admitted, and we'd watch our father go between one hospital and another, calling one hospital, and then calling my mother, and then another hospital. She and I were pretty grown-up as we worried together about our mother, our little brother, and our exhausted father.

My aunt had quit her job, and my father paid her to watch us while he worked, and, of course, my brother was allowed to run wild as a two-year-old because everyone had been so terrified at how sick he'd been. I was an extremely small seven-year-old and he was a good-sized two-year-old, and he started to terrorize me and even my sister (twelve) in a way that nobody would ever think a toddler could do to older kids. He would tease and tease and get us upset, and one day my sister was so upset she ran after him and fell down and did something to her nose. Another time my out-of-control brother leaped off the arm of the couch and through the glass on a french door (without much injury). He had become a happy, teasing, wild, fresh, little boy who was king.

In a few years my sister outgrew his torture, but I remained for the long haul. In pictures he and I almost look like twins, so it was rough even though I was older. For years he and I hated each other a good part of the time, although he had also become my playmate in view of the fact that I still needed to play and my sister was now too big. There would be times in the backseat of the car when we'd get a whole big fight going because someone was looking at the other one. Sometimes, though, we'd play "club" quite well. He would announced that we were "going to have a club" and that he'd be "president". Even five years older, when I said politely one time, "I'd like to be president", he said, "I'm the president. You're the treasurer". (Not that the treasurer or the president ever did anything past stating their office in these do-nothing clubs). We honestly didn't like each other a good part of the time, and yet - oh so many memories of playing Vacu-Form, Creepy Crawlers, GI Joe and Barbie in a boat, and Erector set!

My brother was messy, and I was neat. My sister was messy, and I was neat. Nobody understand why I wanted to be neat, and neither of them appreciated my pickiness. My brother ate all his Trick or Treat candy. My sister at all hers. I would store mine and never eat it. My mother would eventually throw it away after a long time had passed.

I am the middle child, as I said. I had had the benefit of being close to both my sister and brother. I think I came to see myself as some sort of glue in the family.

My brother was 16 when our father died, and it wasn't until I had grown much older and realized how awfully young he was to lose his father. My sister was married when our father died. With my brother going through his own thing and her married, I played man-of-the-house until my mother began to take on more of her new role as widow (and until my brother got a little older).

The most meaningful memory I have with my brother is the Thanksgiving when my mother had died the day before and when my youngest children were with their other grandmother and when he, and my oldest son, and I sat at the dining room table to eat the dinner my brother had cooked (I guess because we had nothing better to do that day.). My grown baby-brother has done a lot for me. So has my big sister.

What siblings share grows with them in ways we don't really expect. When my sister and I go shopping and see little, tiny, elderly, ladies who must be sisters we smile and say, "That's how we're going to be."

When I see my kids with their siblings I'm proud of them. My parents would be proud of me and my siblings too. Siblings can hold things together when it seems all could fly away.

My precious son, when I know your birthday will be coming around again, it's always a little strange for me.  That's because people so often say that birthdays are really "for the mother", but I wasn't there when you came into the world. 

I've managed to figure out roughly what I was doing the day you (at 5 lbs and 21" inches long) were born (at 5:28 p.m).  I know I was working that day, and chances are I was still at work on that early Summer evening as you made your arrival into the world.  It kind of bothers me that the only reason I know I was working is that I know I didn't take any days off from work around that time.  I can't even recall whether I went out that evening after work or not.

So, here I am, your mother and so absolutely loving you every bit as much as any mother loves her child, not having even been there or known you were being born on that day when you entered the world.  It's just (to put it plainly) weird - that's all. 

The way I've come to see your birthday, though, is that this was the day the child who would become my son came into the world.  On the date toward the end of Summer, the little boy who would change my life was born.  Sometimes adoptive parents celebrate "adoption day".  For me, by the time your adoption was finalized I had loved you for over three years, and it all seemed anti-climactic.  Even the judge didn't act as if it was an event more than just the signing of a certificate.  Of course, without fanfare or much talk, when the anniversary of the finalization comes around each year, it does not go unnoticed for me.  Still, that's more a very private thing that, again, almost doesn't seem to matter much.

No, the day that "belongs to me" every bit as much as every child's birthday belongs to his mother too, is your birthday.  That's the day that brought my special boy into the world (even without my being there), and that is the day that turned fate in the direction that would turn me into the mother of a child I would not meet for a couple of months more.

Like everyone's birthday, of course, yours in your special day - and not really mine.  Still, in that way that each child's birthday also does belong to his mother to some degree, I share yours with every bit as much joy and reverence that every mother shares her child's special day.

My son was approaching two years old when I had him out one evening.  He spotted the huge, early-evening, moon and said (in his less-than-perfect use of the English language), "Her buy me the moon?"  He just seemed fascinated by it, so when we got home I wrote him a little verse: 

Yes, I'd buy you the moon

if I thought it would make you happy.

And I'd wrap it up in rainbows

and seal it with a special kiss for you.

But the moon is much too high,

and I'm always five-feet-two.

I can't reach it

though I'll surely try for you.

Stocking-hatted, tiny, boy -

there, behind the glass.

Sweetest face in all the world,

my precious, newborn, son.

Stocking-hatted little boy,

walking next to me;

two of a kind, peas in a pod -

Beloved and treasured son.

Stocking-hatted college kid,

there, outside our kitchen door;

peeking in to see who's home.

Welcome home, so glad you're here.

Handsome, woolen-coated, man -

stocking cap held in your hand.

Proudest Mom in all the world,

my precious, handsome, grown-up, son.

Quiet months of waiting,

and worrying have ended now.

A frightening storm

and your journey are done.

Here in my arms, tiny stranger,

you stare

into eyes that still can't

believe that you're here.

I can't say I know you,

sweet stranger of mine.

I must say I like you

already.

I promise you, Sweetheart,

I'll love you forever

and ever

and more than I knew

that I could.

Hello, tiny Sweetheart,

sweet stranger - my child.

You don't look as I had expected.

Yet, scaly-skinned, blotchy-faced,

baby - my child,

I love you.

You're beautiful.

You're mine.

A young woman, who was feeling very depressed and disenfranchised, once asked strangers on the Internet how she could just become a fairy. She talked about not wanting to feel ordinary and ignored. She talked about wanting to feel nicer about herself. She asked to feel special and stand out from the crowd. She explained her reasons for wanting to know how to "become a fairy".

I, of course, saw “how to be a fairy” as quite the challenging question to answer. I decided to try, though, because – for some reason – I thought it was important. The following is the best answer I could think of. Some of these thoughts may seem peculiar - but then, so was the challenge of trying to figure out how to tell a young woman how she could be a "fairy".

                                    Thoughts on How to Feel Like A Fairy

First, you can feel like a fairy if just once in a while you leave a little surprise gift (could be as little as a tiny package of gummy bears) for someone in, say, their mailbox. It doesn't matter if they know who left it or not, although if its candy you may want to add a little card so they know there's nothing weird about it. Make some tiny little bunches of, say, dried flowers with ribbons, and just leave them for people whose day you'd like to brighten.

If you want to stand out from the crowd you can't do what the crowd does.

You have to dress in a way that you think makes you most beautiful. Figure out what things you have that are particularly nice and play them up. If you have beautiful, healthy, shiny hairs don’t color it. If it is pretty and curly don't straighten it. If what's nice about it is that it’s straight then play that up. If you have beautiful eyes play them up. If you have beautiful hands do your nails in a way that makes them look even more beautiful.

Even if you think everyone else is wearing jeans and one certain kind of top or another, you wear things that make you feel pretty and feminine. You don't have to go the fancy dress route if you're heading out for pizza, but you can find pretty and feminine tops or particularly interesting handbag or one that has character. Longer skirts always feel more feminine that shorter ones. Be brave and wear things that make you feel pretty and feminine, and never mind what your friends are wearing. Sometimes, if you start wearing something other people will then copy. You won't stand out from the crowd if you do what the crowd is doing. You won't stand out if you do something different that doesn't show your personality and mood and tastes. When it comes to clothing the only way you'll stand out is to do what looks nicest on you, what makes you feel the way you like to feel, and what is flattering then you stand the chance of looking as if you're unique and confident enough to do your own style thing.

Find a really pretty scent to wear and always wear the same one.

Keep your personal environment (a room, for example) neat and organized. Fairies aren't messy. Also, try to keep a small thing of fresh flowers around. If you like scented candles find a scent and buy them whenever you see them. Keep them around.

Develop some interests. What you may not realize is that fairies have interests. It doesn't have to be anything fancy or exotic or brilliant. Just find a few things you like to do (make jewelry, do photography, paint, learn about plants, whatever) and make sure you work on a couple of interests at least a couple of times a week.

Read on a regular basis. It doesn't have to be a classic or anything "impressive". Just find things to read - books that you think you'll enjoy, magazine articles, etc.

Don't use drugs. Fairies don't use drugs, and people who use drugs are about the most ignorable people on Earth.

Decide to stop doing anything you do that isn't nice. If you talk about people in a bad way behind their back stop. If you use vulgar language, don't. Fairies are nice and don't use vulgar language. Make it a point to try to do something nice for someone whenever you see the opportunity. The Queen of Fairies would agree that that's one of the important things.

Stay away from violent movies or television. Fairies don't watch those. Fairies like love stories, and they like to laugh. They also like to think. Think of all the nice or good things that you are on the inside and remember them. Think of things that maybe aren't all that nice, kind or good for you and begin to stop doing those.

Find places to go that feel like they're a little adventure. Something as simple as a picnic at a park or a walk to see if you can see any different looking birds can be slightly adventure-feeling. Looking for pretty glass along the ocean or shells or rocks does the same thing. If you really like real adventure then look into how to get involved with something like rock climbing, scuba diving, etc.

Fairies don't drink things like iced coffee, soda with sugar in it, or beer. They drink spring water, tea of any kind, chai, maybe a nice little wine, and most fruit juices. Fairies don't eat big, messy, gross foods. They eat food that won't embarrass them because it’s so messy its inelegant. Fairies like the occasional piece of candy, but they aren't big on all kinds of sweets all the time.

Fairies listen to beautiful music. It may be classical music. It may be music with pretty melodies. It may be music that is happy and makes a person feel cheerful and uplifted. It may be "big, instrumental, powerful" music. Rock music isn't what fairies like.

If you are true to yourself, decide to be what you want to be, don't follow the crowd, and try not to do things that aren't positive and healthy you can feel pretty good about yourself. If you build the "you" you are on the inside and dress in a way that is "you" on the outside it may help you feel more the way you'd like to feel.

People who stand out from the crowd (in a good way) don't try to stand out. They are so unique, strong, confident and independent-thinking they just stand out without trying. People who aren't ignored are people who have something worth listening to to say or an appearance that is so interesting others can't help but notice them.

If you go about your business of trying to build yourself, your life, and your future into what you want it to be; and if you are kind and thoughtful to others; you may find that doing those things will result in making you un-ignorable and someone who stands out and doesn't have a boring life. I have it on good authority that real fairies (the kind with wings and magic dust to shake around) would love so much to be humans. Real fairies don't really do too much that's all that interesting. Real young women, however, can do pretty much anything they set their mind to doing and become whatever they want to become.

Finally, keep a lid on the fairy talk when you're out with friends. It’s a big way to get yourself ignored. P.S: Even the happiest fairies have times when they shed tears of sadness. It isn't whether someone is happy all the time but how gracious and strong and hopeful they can stay through the times when there are tears. Fairies are gracious and strong and always, always hopeful about tomorrow

The day we were in court to finalize the adoption, I was talking with the social worker as we waited in the hall. I was, of course, excited to have finally gotten to the day of finalizing the adoption; but I needed to talk to the social worker about something that had been bothering me. I began to ask her a question about the birth parents. I don't recall my words, but my question or comment was related to my trying to put myself in the place of the birth mother. There were things I needed to know, as I got ready to enter the judge's chambers.

When she realized that my questions and comment were about to be based on my trying to put myself in the birth mother's place, the social worker interrupted me fairly quickly. She said, "Lisa, there is no way you can imagine yourself in her place because 'these people' are so different. There's just no way you can put yourself in their place, and you can't be thinking that way." I had known my son's birth parents were troubled people who were very different than my family was, but I couldn't help but think of them as we prepared to sign the papers.

It was probably the social worker's comment that day, combined with a few odd incidents that went on when my son was small, that led to the recurring dreams I began to have. I'm not someone who usually has recurring dreams, but somewhere along the way I started to have the same dream every couple of months: I'd be looking out my living room window, and I'd see four shadowy figures on the lawn, under the trees. I couldn't make out whether they were women or men. They were dressed in black and wore hats. They all looked the same. It was one of those dreams that was disturbing, even though there was no terror in it. In the dreams I would be wondering why these disturbing figures stood silently on my lawn, at dawn or dusk, looking into my living room window. I wasn't really afraid of them. I just kept wondering what they were going to do. I wished they would come tell me why they were there - or else leave.

Since I was too busy to be thinking about dreams in those days, I just accepted that the disturbing dream occurred every so often. My son was eight when we moved to a different house. We had lived there for a few months before I had the dream, but the next time the shadowy figures showed up in a dream they weren't on the front lawn. In the new dream I was really terrified because, although I didn't see them, I knew they were in the basement.

This dream had terror that the previous ones had not. In it I locked the basement door, hoping they couldn't get into the house. The dream seemed to go on forever, and in it I was just in awful way. Suddenly, in this terrifying dream in which I knew the figures had gotten into my house, I realized they were walking up the basement stairs and that the lock would not keep them out. After I locked the door I kept thinking, "What are you going to do now? How long can you leave them trapped in the basement? You can't call the police. Are they there forever?" (In the dream, the basement apparently had no exit.)

I was also aware of thinking how they could see what was going on and would not find anything that made them unhappy or angry. Sometimes, though, it just felt as if they were there - not interested in anything but standing there.

Even though the basement stairs were closed in I could still see them filing, one by one, up the stairs. The first figure simply opened the door, came through it, and walked silently out my front door. The others followed.

I wasn't able (or brave enough) to leave the house, and I think I was aware that my children were asleep in their rooms. Because I knew I had no choice but to stay there and see what these figures would do, I backed up against the farthest wall possible. Suddenly, even though I had my three children by then, I was only holding my eldest son, as I watched the figures file past us and leave the house. In the dream, he was standing near me, and I was guarding him with my two arms. He was just there - not afraid or not aware of what was going on. It was clear that I was the only one who knew there was reason to be afraid in the dream.

As the last shadowy figure walked out the front door and closed it behind him, I was incredibly relieved. Then I felt kind of foolish for being so afraid of these repeat visitors to my dreams. There was never a dream in which any of these strange figures would tell me why that had loomed outside my home, how they got into the basement, or what it was they wanted. It turned out that once these dream figures had finally scared the heck out of me by being in the basement, walked up the stairs, showed me that there was no keeping them locked in the basement, and left; it suddenly became clear to me who/what they represented.

My son was, as I said, eight years old. I think, in my mind, I had reached a point where I felt that he was old enough that the presence of any real-life "shadowy figures" in his life/background would no longer hold the potential of making him confused. When he was little, there had been a few incidents that had made me have concerns about someone's trying to find him and take him. Only one of those incidents was real cause for concern, and that had occurred before he had been placed with me. The others were peculiar incidents, but necessarily related to members of his birth family.

So, I had had that concern when he was very young. More upper-most in mind, though, were my concerns about how much I would tell him when, how much he could deal with at what age, and whether his world would be turned upside if he learned too much too early.

After that final dream, the "message" was so plain to see: Once the shadowy figures got into the house (which was apparently some elevation of "their" attempt to make their presence known) and showed me they could not be locked in the basement, "they" had apparently accomplished their aim. "They" showed me, too, that even if they came up out of the basement they had no intent of doing anything but leaving me and my son to live our lives in peace together.

I'll never know if the figures in the dream actually represented the birth family or my own worries; or if my mind just put the logical, shadowy, mysterious, image to the whole adoption picture because that's what made the most sense. I just know the dreams stopped when he was eight and after we had moved.

Although my son had been placed as an infant, it took three years to actually finalize the adoption. Living under the threat of having something go wrong and having him placed with strangers he didn't know had been quite an ordeal. Anyone who has an almost three-year-old child, and knows how attached a child that age is, can imagine the anxiety I had had when I imagined his being moved for some reason. I was well aware of the damage that occur when young children are taken from the only family they know.

With three years of such fear for him; and then the few extra years of knowing that even if I handled things correctly the child I so treasured and adored could suffer emotional consequences if we were moved; it isn't any surprise that I would have recurring dreams.

All I know is that it was that final dream that made me realize that a difficult truth need not be buried, and would not hurt either my son or me. In fact, what the shadowy figures in my dream let me know was that, while I hadn't been able to keep them away, they had been the ones to choose to leave.

After years of reminding myself that my son was going to be adopted whether or not I was the one to adopt him; and after years of reminding myself that the birth parents would not have kept their parental rights regardless of who adopted my son; I found peace in realizing that I had had no hand in any loss they suffered. That's, I guess, when I realized that there were no shadows looming over my being my son's mother any more than there were shadows looming over my relationship with the two children I had myself.

Two decades, and two incredibly wonderful, grown-up, children later; it now seems so clear that there is life after miscarriage - and lots of it. When miscarriage first happens, however, it can seem as if one's mind is on nothing but the loss of life of a little person we never got to know.

Looking back on the day, in the 20th week of my first pregnancy, when no heartbeat was detected; to this day I can re-experience that "gray, hollow, emptiness" that seemed to descend around me. I had had no reason to think I'd have trouble having babies, but, of course, that was because I hadn't yet tried to have one. I had been hospitalized for a threatened miscarried a month or so earlier, but I had happily left the hospital, being told all was perfectly well. It happens that I have an adopted son, who was three years old at the time, but his adoption had nothing to

After the doctor (whose face showed clearly how disturbing he found the lack of heartbeat) confirmed what I could hear for myself, I went numb and had nothing to say. He kept saying to me, "You still have your little boy. You still have your little boy." I knew that and was, of course, extremely appreciative to have my first son; but he was not THIS baby. THIS baby was a different child, and THIS baby would not get to be a beautiful, golden-haired, three-year-old like its brother. THIS baby had gone - in one day - from being "my baby" to "the fetal remains".

I was told to stop at the nurses' desk and make arrangement for some testing, which would be done before I was admitted to the hospital. The nurse came out from behind the desk and was staring, with a "spooked" look in her eyes. In my eyes, I could feel I had a blank stare, although I was going through the motions of talking and setting up appointments. She said, "You have a little boy, don't you? You have him."

After taking care of what I needed to there, I left the office, numb. I remained numb through the few days to follow, as I called family and work to let everyone know the development.

After the additional test results came back, I still needed more information; so I pushed to have a few more tests done. I was, I suppose, dragging my feet because I just didn't want to go and have the pregnancy "cleared out". For those few days, even though I was numb, I hung on just a little longer to the thought that some mistake had been made. If I cried, I don't recall it, and there wasn't much of it. The numbness and the emptiness are what I recall.

After the results of the final test came back, the doctor began asking about setting up my admission to the hospital. When I suggested a date that was apparently too far off he said, "You can't just keep going on like this. It's dangerous." I agreed on the date he suggested, which was the following day. That night, as I lay thinking about what would happen the following day, for the first time I actually thought about my own health. I was suddenly afraid that I would die in my sleep from "poison", so by the time I signed into the hospital I was more than ready to have the D&E.

After spending a day or two at that far end of the obstetrics floor, always aware that the newborn nursery was somewhere down the hall, I went home and prepared to go back to work the following day. After all, I had nothing else to do but return to work. I was no longer an expectant mother. I was "just me" again. "Besides", I thought, "I'm not the emotional type. I'm the type who operates on reason. I didn't know that baby, so there is only so much missing it I should be doing. You can't love or miss someone/something you never got to know." Much to the surprise of my boss and co-workers, I was at work the next day - complete with mascara on the eyes that still felt, to me, as if they were staring. I had that odd sense of wanting to reach out for something that wasn't there, and it was difficult trying to process missing what I had never had. One evening I wrote a verse, "To The Child Who Wasn't Meant to Be"; and I thought about how there would be another child one day (but thinking of "one day" only seemed to heighten the loneliness).

The doctor recommended some additional testing in order to determine whether I could have another pregnancy. The tests involved the injection of radio-opaque dye, and I didn't like the idea having "chemicals" so close to any "egg supply". Besides, I just didn't feel as if I could go through anything else. I decided that having a baby was the only way I'd know if I could, and the only way to do that was to try to have another pregnancy and see how it went.

My ever-so-proper boss of several years didn't seem quite comfortable when I met him in the hall, but he said he was sorry to hear about what had happened. His wife had gone through three miscarriages, and I do think he really did understand. The first week or so did seem to bring a lot of similar condolences from co-workers. Some people didn't know what to say, so I particularly appreciated those who acknowledged the loss without reminding me that I had my son or could have another baby. I was experiencing some "left-over" physical problems, and there was one day when I did feel as if I was going to faint. It passed.

Life at home was very much like it had always been, and having my little son meant not being able to spend a lot of time "wallowing in self-pity". As I said, I knew I am the type who is not "emotional". I kept thinking about how I reason out feelings, and how I process feelings in an orderly way. For some reason, I kept reminding myself of how I had everything in proper perspective. Life had returned to normal with one exception: I knew that I could not listen to music, because I knew if I did I would cry; and I somehow thought that if I cried I may not be able to stop.

About two months after I had been in the hospital, my husband and I were watching the movie, "The End", starring Burt Reynolds. Whether or not it was truly all that funny, I don't know; but it just struck the two of us as funny. We were laughing hysterically (and hadn't laughed, I don't think, for quite some time). My laughing suddenly turned into crying - and it was the kind of crying that made me think it may not stop. I wished I had known that a comedy could result in crying, as well as music; but I hadn't, and the crying went on for a long time. It did, however, stop. That's the thing about crying - it always stops.

As with all grief, the numbness and emptiness went away slowly. As with no other grief, this grief just seemed so much "mine, alone" (even though I knew others shared it in their own way). It was always in the back of my mind that until I had a normal pregnancy I would never know, for sure, whether I would have more children. As with all grieving situations, I did a whole lot of asking "why" , trying to figure out "God's reasoning", and doubting that God existed at all. For a while I wondered if, in all His mercy and wisdom, God had sent me my little son because He knew I would never have children myself.

As no "other baby" was showing up, I became quite close with a friend who was experiencing serious fertility problems. She and I would commiserate and confide in each other. Although the numbness had faded away over the year that followed, I had that sometimes overwhelming sense of having "unfinished business". As the months wore on without a new pregnancy, I began to become more and more frightened that the "unfinished business" would remain unfinished, and that my one and only experience with having a baby would be the one that had left me so empty and so longing for a healthy, alive, baby.

My first son was five years old when his baby brother was born. Throughout my second pregnancy the baby barely moved, and there were times when I so doubted that "it" was still alive I was not able to tell a soul about my fears. I supposed I had slipped back into that isolated, lonely, empty, state of knowing that I was "supposed to be expecting a baby" but suspecting all was not well (and yet not wanting to face it). Other women got to enjoy their pregnancies. For me, it was little more than 34 weeks of worrying that I had yet another disastrous situation waitiing to be discovered at some routine office visit. I had the ultrasound pictures of the baby, and I heard its heartbeat more than once; but I could not make myself believe that this time all will be fine.

As the nurse was wheeling me to the labor area the day I went to have my son she asked, "Is this your first baby?" I wryly joked that it was my second child, second pregnancy, but first delivery. Inside, I was thinking, "Whether or not I end up with a live baby remains to be seen." Even as I was headed up to have this baby, I somehow needed to make sure I mentioned the one I never got to have. That's the thing about babies (whether adopted, delivered, or miscarried) - each one is a separate little individual unlike any other.

My tiny, feisty, screaming, baby son was born at 34 weeks. His little "u-shaped" face and head looked so much smaller than other newborns', but he was screaming and screaming and clearly so, so, alive. The doctor announced that I could hold my baby for "a minute" but that was all. He said that I would be leaving the hospital on the Thursday but the baby would be staying. As I held my wrapped up and oh-so-tiny and beautiful baby boy, he simply stopped screaming. I, on the other hand, was crying so hard I wondered if and when I would ever stop. The doctor said, "I hope those are tears of joy." I said that they were; but the truth is, even though I was, of course, joyful; it was more as if it was somehow finally really safe to cry. It was over. The whole, long, process of having a bad pregnancy, living through the loss, and having this one, real live, baby (finally) was over. I suppose there had always been a part of me that felt I had failed that first baby, and now there was a part of me that felt I had somehow failed this beautiful little baby boy by going into labor so early.

When I returned home that Thursday my arms were still empty, and even though I'd have my beautiful baby I was still feeling that sense of loneliness and yearning for the kind of things that so many other mothers just get to take for granted.

With my baby in the special care nursery, losing weight with every half ounce he drank, I spent another two weeks fearing that he would drop down below the 3 lb mark and just "wither away". He was one ounce away from going below the 4 lb mark when he began to gain weight, and I finally got to bring him home. All the flowers I had when I had him had died, and the balloons had become deflated. An interesting thing is that I never once experienced any post-partum blues. Then again, in a way, my baby was born into the "blues" I had had for close to two years.

Three years later I would have my beautiful little girl "as planned". She moved like crazy all through the pregnancy (which lasted a healthy 37 weeks), and she joined my "little set of boys" to make our family truly complete. Five years after the miscarriage, I got to do all the things that other new mothers get to do; and I got to come home with my baby while the flowers were still fresh and the pink balloons were still floating high. With my daughter, as with my little son, I just didn't experience any particular post partum blues. I was happy from the moment I saw her and have been absolutely happy and delighted with all three of my children ever since.

There is life after miscarriage, but as with all grief, the road can sometimes be long and not without bumps or obstacles. The crying (and the fear of crying) does stop, and the emptiness does go away. It takes time, but one day those of us who have been through miscarriage wake up and realize we can think of our children without thinking of that child who wasn't meant to be; and somewhere along the way, that never-reached due date passes without our really noticing it. Still, even though we get to where we don't think of it very often, when we do we can feel the emptiness as if it were yesterday. While there is lots of life after miscarriage for us, there is no life for the child we so wanted to bring into the world; and that, I suppose, is what leaves us looking toward the skies and listening toward the winds, wondering what might have been.

"Through the Glass, and Off to the Side"

My tiny, sweet, little son was born at just past 34 weeks. Fortunately, he was said to be a "healthy premie", so he was able to be kept at the smaller, suburban, hospital in which he was born, rather than be transferred to a NIC unit at a larger Boston hospital.

At the hospital where he was born, there were two nursery sections for newborns - the "main" nursery, and a smaller, off-to-the-side, darker, section; where all babies spent their first 24 hours in an incubator, and where my son would remain until the day before I would eventually bring him home.

Before I was released from the hospital, and before I was allowed to hold my baby, I would, of course, stand at the glass in front of the "special" section of the nursery, looking in at my tiny son. My husband didn't happen to be there one afternoon, as visitors began to crowd the hall by the "regular" nursery glass, in order to see the new babies of friends and relatives. In the crowd there were also parents. Everyone was naturally excited and delighted to be seeing (or showing off) the new babies. There they all were - over at that big, right-hand-side, window - seeming so completely happy and unburdened by worries. There I was - at the smaller, left-hand-side, window - standing alone and trying to see "some sign of something 'OK'" in my tiny baby. A round, yellow-plastic, "face" toy was in my baby's incubator. He wore a pastel green, knit, hat that framed his tiny, red, U-shaped, face as he slept. I was happy for the people at the other glass. I just wished I could be one of them.

Suddenly, a young woman came scooting over to take a look into other smaller nursery. It was as if she had noticed me and thought she may have missed some new babies that were in that part of the nursery. She quickly scooted next to me, took a peek in, and headed right back to the bustling group of people. Without any effort to lower her voice, she cavalierly said, "Go look at that little, sick, baby over there." Nobody else came to look at my baby, and I resisted the urge to tell her, "He's not sick. He's healthy. He's just premature." I didn't care what she thought, but neither did I particularly like her cavalier, ignorant, remark and demeanor.

So there I stood, off to the side, longing to see my baby in the "main" nursery, while knowing he was neither sick nor like any of the other babies there. This was the beginning of a long string of such experiences in his first two years, which showed me how being the mother of a premie can so often mean feeling just a little "off to the side".

People often say that little boys are more active than little girls are. Well, I kind of hate to say this about my most precious, most beautiful, daughter; but she was pretty much the straw that broke the camel's back when it came to grocery shopping.

Before my sweetie-girl was born I felt like the picture of organization, efficiency, and energy as I took my well spaced sons to the grocery store. My oldest son was just five when his little brother was born. My helpful and perfectly well behaved older son would walk along beside me. My littlest guy would ride in the shopping cart. Grocery shopping was as effortless as it would have been had I been shopping alone. That was the easy life I had with my two little sons. My littlest guy was going on three when his little sister was on the way. The fact my unborn daughter, unlike her biological brother (one son was adopted), moved non-stop should have been a tip-off of things to come.

Actually, all remained effortless while she was too young to stand up; but even at five months old my wiry little sweetie found ways to get out of the car-seat straps that I had thought were so secure. Even the smallest of infants gains weight, though. Even the most self-sufficient of three-year-olds still needs watching and help. Also, even the most well behaved of eight-year-old boys get more energetic. Over the months between my daughter's birth and the time she began standing up I could feel my self-image of being the picture of composure and organization at the grocery store began to erode. The month my daughter turned nine months old marked the beginning of a two-year period when grocery shopping was nothing but a horror show. My head never really exploded, but it often felt as if it would.

My nine-month-old daughter decided that since she could stand up that meant she need never, ever, sit down again. Other than the fact that she was a wiry and active little lady, I have no explanation for the fact that, no matter how hard I tried to fasten her car seat correctly, she happily "Houdini'd" her way out of it on absolutely every car ride. This meant that every car ride (and I mean EVERY car ride) involved my almost constantly looking in the rear-view mirror, trying to figure where I could stop the car, and listening to my two caring, conscientious, little sons giving me an urgent, play-by-play account of what "she's doing now". The word, "Whoa" was frequently used by my sons. "Now she's" and "Mum" were coming at me from all directions as well.

With my sons there had been the occasional backseat crisis, but those were rare enough that I can count them. There was one nosebleed and one bee sting, both of which resulted in panic from the backseat. There was the day my baby son reached into the paper grocery bags and was happily holding eight of the twelve eggs I'd just bought. (If you've ever seen one of those tv shows where someone has to carefully pull the correct wire to stop a bomb from going off, you'll get the idea of how I approached the eggs.) With my sons there had been many, many, bathroom emergencies. (One particularly urgent emergency involved a Gatorade bottle, a lot of crying by a child who didn't want to do such a thing, and an awfully good natured brother, as well as several parts of the car, being sprayed.) On the whole, throughout my 13 son-years crises in the car on the way to the store (or anywhere else for that matter) were rare. Crises and stress in the grocery store never existed for me.

First there was just me and my first son - piece of cake. He rode in the baby seat until he was too big, and then he walked. Then there were the years when it was "me and my little guys". The littlest guy rode in baby seat. The older one either walked quietly beside me or hitched a ride on the front of the carriage - still a piece of cake. When the grocery shopping trip turned into "me, two little sons, and a little daughter who, 1) never sat down and 2) needed constant guarding because of that; it started to feel as if I was shopping a lot more than I really was. Maybe it was because I always had to keep a hand on my daughter's hand, or maybe it was because one wild baby and two always-in-panic-mode, little boys in the backseat seemed like a bigger crowd than it really was. I started to see myself and them as "conjoined quadruplets". The shopping cart usually had one standing baby in the baby seat, one small boy in the main part of the cart, and (because I still wanted to keep track of my oldest son) one eight-year-old riding the front of the carriage. There was a kind of clowns-in-a-little-car kind of feel to it. That was fine, though. There was something cozy about the whole thing. The problem was that, besides my needing to always keep my hand on my standing baby, there was little room for groceries in the cart.

When toddlers turn to preschoolers and first-graders turn into third-graders, more eating starts to go on. That means more food, which means more groceries. Active eight-year-olds who don't want to ride the front of the cart can have trouble not drifting off in some direction. If they don't drift off somewhere down aisle they're still little enough to be in people's way. They can read, so stopping to read cereal boxes, cat food packages, and super-hero fruit-bites boxes is common. When they do hop on the carriage they're heavier to push.

Little preschool boys start to get legs that are too long to ride in the cart. They, too, weigh more (which means the cart is more likely to tip). Women's hands aren't necessarily strong enough to prevent a cart-load of children from tipping; so the choice is either to remain nervous about it all and keep on pushing or else let the four-year-old walk. While four-year-olds don't usually read packages, they don't just drift off somewhere else in the aisle. They out-and-out stop and sit down because they're tired.

So, with my ever-standing baby daughter doing her own version of the scene from the movie, Titanic, where Jack yells out that he's kind of the world; and with my increasingly long-legged younger son and increasingly heavy elder son (and with all of them being given a piece of cheese for ride), I tossed lightweight items in on top of my precious little son, never taking my eyes or hand off his sister. I was constantly talking with my eight-year-old (who seemed to choose the grocery store to bring up important discussions).

Exhausted, I would bring home whatever I'd managed to be able to pick up. Later that evening, once they were in bed, I'd leave them with their father. By the time I got to shop alone there would be fifteen minutes left before closing - but, oh, the relaxation of sonic-speed running through the store with an unoccupied shopping cart, two free hands, and no talking.

They're all grown now, and yet I can recall that absolutely exhausted and frazzled feeling as if it were this afternoon. I've heard that the brain makes us forget how bad some things feel, so I can only assume that my recalling the exhaustion so well must mean it was "a good kind of exhaustion".

A Funny, But Embarrassing, Parent Story

My daughter attended a preschool program that was a pilot program. The aim was to integrate children who had tested in the top 25% on developmental skills with Special Needs preschoolers to study benefits to the children.

Being a pilot program, the teachers and administrators paid close attention to what was going on.

One evening my daughter had had her bath and was ready for bed. Since she was ready for bed I didn't think anything about the fact that she was playing for a while longer. What I didn't realize is that she had made a trip downstairs to see our dog. He was a beautiful Collie, so his long hair often meant lots of yard dirt being brought into the hall downstairs. On muddy days it was, of course, worse. It had been one of those muddy days on that evening when my extremely well-cared-for four-year-old went downstairs in her bare feet to say "good night" to the dog. She then scooted up to her room and into her bed, and I went to say my usual, "good night".

The next day I laid out her clothes and socks for her, and she got dressed and went to preschool.

When she came home she told me that (for some reason) all the children had taken off their shoes and socks. Then - to my horror - she told me that the teacher saw that she had dirty feet and commented on it! I, of course, had no idea that she had dirty feet because, as far as I had known, she had had a bath and gone to bed fairly soon after.

Nobody from the school said a word to me about it, so the matter was left unexplained to the teacher who had spotted the dirty tootsies. Although if I'd had the chance to explain I would have, it happened that over the following few days there wasn't really a convenient time to catch the teacher. They were often busy with the Special Needs students and kind of left the non-Special-Needs mothers on their own. As a result, time passed and I guess I forgot to mention my horror at the dog-dirt-tootsies incident.

My daughter is 22 years old now, but somewhere out there in teacher-land is a teacher who, at least at one time, must have believed I was a negligent and horrible mother!

PL, if you're out there and reading this: I gave her a bath. Honest! I just didn't know she went near the downstairs door in her bare feet! Honest! Yes, I was going to sweep up the dried mud the dog brought in, but I always did my house chores either after the children went to bed or while they were in school. Honest! Honest!

My son was born in the era of Mr. Rogers; and anyone familiar with the beloved Mr. Rogers is also familiar with his neighborhood postman, "Mr. McFeely (played by David Newell), who accompanied his drop-offs to Mr. Rogers with the catch phrase, "Speedy Delivery". Well, that is the story of my son's arrival into the world. Whenever I would hear Mr. McFeely call, "Speedy Delivery!", it would remind me of the little boy watching Mr. Rogers and waiting to see what Mr. McFeely had brought.

My son didn't just have a "speedy" arrival. He arrived six weeks before "estimated time of delivery". To further complicate the matter, he arrived upside down - unbeknownst to the doctor, who had announced, "Your baby is bald as an eagle," only to later see that my baby had lots of dark gold hair that stood on end (the way Charles Schultz's "Woodstock's" does). My 4 lb, 8 oz son also arrived with one fierce capacity to scream, but I digress from the delivery story:

It all began on a dreary Monday in November, when, for some reason I never knew, my husband just didn't go to work. He hadn't announced any need for taking a "mental health day". Instead, he just kind of sat at the breakfast table, talking to me, and not getting up to go to work. As late morning set in we began to discuss going out in the afternoon to buy the baby a car seat. We didn't think it was any emergency, but since he had taken the day off it seemed like a good day to go baby-store browsing. The plan was to head out in the afternoon, although we didn't actually leave until close to 5:00. Since I hadn't eaten anything that day (for some reason that I don't know, because I usually ate), we decided to stop at a little muffin and sandwich shop on the way to the baby store. Our five-year-old son would be coming along, so we thought it would be nice for the three of us to eat out together.

Since I wasn't in the mood to eat much (now I know why, but I didn't at that time), I ordered an egg sandwich on toast. I had just taken two bites (I remember that - two bites) when I was shocked to have my water break. I think it may be every expectant mother's fear that the water will break somewhere like a restaurant; and there I was, dealing with the restaurant chair and a soaked-through coat that left few options but to announce to the waitress what had happened. Wearing the coat, I didn't look very pregnant, which is why the waitress seemed to have trouble "getting" what I was trying to say discreetly. This meant, of course, that I had to follow my first explanation with a repeat explanation; and it wasn't until I said what had happened a few times that she really understood what my problem was. I guess the trouble with trying to be discreet is that the low voice we usually use with attempts at discretion is often not heard.

I awkwardly used a bunch of paper napkins to try to deal with the "problem", but then I was stuck with a bunch of amniotic-fluid napkins I didn't know what to do with. I don't recall what I did do with them (although, knowing me, I would not have handed them to the waitress - that much I know for sure). I do recall her saying, "That's ok. Don't worry about the chair." With that (and with much guilt for walking away from such a "disaster". we got ready to leave.

My five-year-old was as baffled and clueless as the waitress when I told him we had to leave. Again, I tried to be discreet. Again, I had to just say it good and loud and clear, because he was confused and questioning about why we had to leave so soon. When I said, "I'm having the baby" my otherwise intelligent five-year-old finally "got it". He suddenly seemed as knowing and on-the-ball as someone thirty years old, as he exclaimed, "Oh," and grabbed his coat. My husband swooped up our son in his arms, as we headed quickly through the expansive parking lot to the car. Since I'm someone who often finds one reason or another to wipe off restaurant seats and tables with napkins, I suppose my son didn't think much of it. Besides, although he knew I would be having "a little brother" (because he "knew" the baby would be a boy), I had intentionally neglected to tell him some of the gory details of childbirth.

We returned home. I called the doctor, who said, "See what happens, and if nothing happens overnight come in to the office tomorrow." I got my son's clothes and toys together, so he could stay with my mother for the night. I waited through the night, and nothing happened. The next day when I called the doctor's office I was told to come in after noon. Well, by this time, I was starting to realize that "this labor thing" was pretty much a long, drawn-out, affair; so I decided to get a few things done before heading off to the doctor's office.

We needed to get our mail from the Post Office, so I asked my husband to stop along the way to the doctor's office. I waited in the car. It was a small Post Office and parking lot, and we had to wait for quite a while after my husband returned to the car, because someone had parked in a non-space and blocked our car. Although I did have the urge to mention to this selfish individual that I was probably on my way to have a baby, I wasn't really too worried. For me, the "big event" had been the water breaking at the restaurant. After that, "this labor thing" was pretty uneventful and boring.

When the doctor told me to go to the hospital he also said to stop and tell his nurse what was going on. I waited my turn to talk to her, and when I tried to tell her to let the hospital know I was going there the nurse was as clueless as the Mug-N-Muffin waitress AND my five-year-old had been. I had to repeat to the clueless and confused nurse that I was going to have the baby. After she kind of of "got it" she pulled open my coat in disbelief. Even after "getting it", she was incredulous as she said, "Oh, you don't look like you're ready to have the baby." Was I the only one who could figure out that I was having a baby? This whole thing was "so not like" the way things go on television. There wasn't a shred of urgency in anyone, and even I was kind of bored with the whole thing by this time.

We got to the admitting area at that hospital. I was, however, pretty hungry because I hadn't eaten, at that point, for two days. As my husband and I waited to talk to someone I kept saying how I'd like to get a cup of tea before being admitted. When we finally talked to the woman and asked about "maybe first getting a cup of tea" all of sudden, and for the first time, I saw a sense of urgency. The woman said emphatically, "I think you had better go right upstairs." (I thought, "Rats - no tea.")

Well, I can't make this long labor story shorter at this point, but take heart - the delivery story can be told in a few lines. It was about 3:30 when I got the labor area and about 3:45 when I saw my own childbirth class (for which I'd only attended the first session) come parading through on its tour of the labor area. Sitting comfortably and bored on the edge of the bed, I pulled the curtain in order to keep my classmates from seeing me.

Finally, at 4:00 I felt something that actually felt like labor. Finally, I knew it was real. Between 4:00 and 4:15 I had "cramps", but I'd had worse in my life. At 4:15 the pain was getting nasty. Since I'd read that first deliveries can take hours and hours, I calmly commented to my husband, "This is pretty bad. I can't really picture having this for - like - 10 hours." At 4:45 a nurse told me that I had been in transition and was ready to push.

All of a sudden, that sense of urgency I hadn't noticed in anyone started to show up - and show up "big" - in everyone anywhere near me. My husband was instructed to hurry up and get his gown and hat on. People were looking asking where the doctor was and if anyone had seen him. My husband disappeared. Nurses seemed to be running around. Someone started pushing me through the hall at high speed. It was as if - all of a sudden - everyone finally "got it" that I was having a baby!

People were moving fast and talking loud and asking about who was where. Where was the doctor? Where was my husband? "This baby is coming now!" seemed to be the general consensus. The doctor came bursting through the door first. Soon after my husband came bursting through the door. Withing minutes (and a very few minutes at that), my upside-down, screaming, baby boy was born at exactly 5:00. Everyone who was supposed to be there had gotten there just in time. There was lots of talk about how close it had all been, and about how fast it had all happened. People were happily re-hashing what they knew was happening when, and who wasn't there. There was teasing of the doctor, who had announced that my breech baby was "bald as an eagle" (plenty of teasing).

As for me, I had learned that labor and delivery aren't always the way the books say they'll be. I had also learned never to skip eating on any day that falls within six weeks of delivery. One important thing I learned is that a restaurant chair full of amniotic fluid actually DOES mean that a real, live, baby is soon to follow. (Until I actually held my tiny and long-lashed little son I don't think I "got it" any more than some of those other people.)

Oh - and one more lesson: I learned to never stop at the Post Office on the way to having a baby. One never knows when one will be happily surprised with "Speedy Delivery!"

When my two sons were young I used to pretty much think of us as "conjoined triplets" because we were always together, and whenever we went anywhere or did anything it meant that I didn't have just my own body to keep healthy, clean, dressed, and otherwise cared for. I had three. I wasn't one person getting into the car or heading into the Post Office. I was three. Before long we became "conjoined quadruplets" when my daughter was born. This meant of all the usual things that any one person usually does for himself, but it also meant four people to be getting to doctors, dentists, eye doctors, school in some cases, etc.

Of course, as "conjoined quadruplets" there was, at times, part-time work for one of us to be doing. There was also an eight-room house with an acre of yard, a dog and a cat, and a swimming pool - all of which needed care, cleaning, or grooming. Laundry was a matter of clothes for all of us, curtains, rugs, bed clothes, towels, and tablecloths. When my daughter was an infant there was also - no exaggeration - four overstuffed trash bags of her clothes and mine because she was a projectile vomiter. There was, of course, food to buy and prepare and the dishes associated with that food (although I wasn't above Dixie cups and paper towels for snacks).

I had a car to be brought to mechanics at time, and there were times when we, "conjoined quadruplets" would get up early to bring my husband to work, and then head off to drop off my oldest son at school. There was bringing their grandmother out shopping twice a week. There were long trips to visit the other grandparents and aunt, and they involved air beds, asthma inhalers, toys for different developmental levels for each child (so nobody would be too loud at Grandma's), clothes, and whatever else to bring on these trips. Waiting for plumbers, septic tank guys, painters, lawn-mowing guys, and whoever else occasionally planned to come between 8 and 5 was part of my day. So was going to pick up my husband and waiting because someone stopped him in the hall.

There was bill-paying and cooking. There were trips to the park, the schools, and any number of activities such as dancing lessons, violin lessons, guitar lessons, skating lessons, and Little League. There were rugs to vacuum, floors to wash, and sometimes there were windows or walls to wash. There were two bathrooms to keep clean or make clean, several beds to make, drawers and closets to keep organized, and, of course, the occasional dog vomit to be picked up.

There was the looking out, or the listening for, when the kids were outside; and there were the various extra jobs like helping them set up something to play in the yard or fixing bike tires. There were toys to sort out and return to their proper boxes. There was Barbie doll and other doll hair to try to get back the way it used to be. There was dance recital hair that had to be "convertible" because it had to start out as an updo just right for a certain feather, be switched to a ponytail for a tap number, and be made right for a third hat worn in the finale.

There were holidays and birthdays to shop for, wrap for, decorate for, cook for, and invite people for. Once every quarter I would spend a few hours with one of my four girlfriends, all of whom also had children. There was the never seeing my sister much at all, but there was the occasional visit from my brother (who had no children).

Shopping was a matter of one child in the child seat, one in the main part of the carriage, and one riding standing on the front of the carriage. This meant, of course, that there was no room for groceries; but we managed.

There was the thinking about what to tell children about any number of things in life, dealing with school issues, and the worrying. There were Winters when one cold or flu after another came beginning in October and finally ending in May.

The first time I began to have little sleep was when I was five months along with my son, who was in a funny position. It was seven years before I finally got to sleep a full six hours because first it was the pregnancy, then it was his being born prematurely, then it was worrying about him until he was two, then I was expecting my daughter, and then it was her being up, etc. etc.

I did, however, make time that was just for me: Every night after the children were asleep, and after I had gotten whatever house work done that I had done earlier because of being out doing errands or spending time with the kids, I would make a pot of coffee to have during Nightline. I would sit and watch Nightline for the half hour before beginning to do some writing and research that I would later be able to use (once I could work full-time again).

There was also, though, time out together as family on Sundays, even if, I'll admit, there were times I would have rather just stayed home and done nothing.

For all I've tried to include here, it doesn't come anywhere near to describing those 21-hour days that I somehow managed to zombie my way through and love. I have to say, though, that I did not particularly appreciate it when a certain person, who worked some very long hours, and who somehow seemed to assume that the walls were clean because they just stayed that way magically, would comment, "What do you do all day?"

Happiest of Mother's Day's to All Who Love, Haved Loved, or Love As, a Mom

Thoughts of a best friend, Michelle, who never got to be a mother, on this year when Mother's Day falls on her birthday. Below is a choir presentation of, "Both Sides Now" - the song Michelle and I playfully once called, "The Waiting for the Bus Song". Now that I'm the mother of grown children, this song has taken on a yet additional meaning. Moms have BFF's too.

Thinking too about about other Moms - Judy, Dottie, Margie, Linda, Rosemary - and particularly, the "other Rosemary", who is often on my mind around Mother's Day. Hoping Celina's sons have remained strong. Janice and Maureen, Alberta and Edie - thinking of you too. Of course, AMS (with all that has gone on)