my return from the abyss

Dear readers, I am finally feeling better!

But what a terribly long and discouraging illness it was. Last Friday, I woke up, went downstairs to shiver on the couch under a blanket and watch the children do their morning thing - nibbling on cereal and enthusiastically greeting all their toys after the night's separation. After a bit I felt the then-familiar wave of nausea crash into me, dragged myself up the stairs to the bathroom, and huddled over the toilet until I finally threw up. But before I was done I heard Gabriel happily burst through the door behind me, exclaiming, Mama's here! Hello, Mama!

At which point I realized there was only thing to do - only one way to make it through this awful illness - and so I waited what seemed like an eternity, until the reasonable hour of 8:30 or so, called my mother, and begged her to come. But begging wasn't called for. She just came. She came with the makings of chicken soup, beautiful pink tulips, and other groceries I needed. She came with a bright and decisive attitude. She sent me to bed and took over everything. And she stayed for four days!

Usually when my mother comes to visit us, she's the grandmother, I'm the mother - and the host - and the children enjoy us accordingly. I make dinner, I change poopy diapers, I make sure there are clean towels (or at least try to) for my mom to use. My mom reads lots of stories, plays games, comforts and entertains, and brings treats. It works rather nicely, I think. But this time, when I opened the door to my mother feeling very ill and shaky, she walked through the threshold as The Mother. The Mother In Charge.

So I did what she said, and went to bed, from where I could hear her mothering my kids. She made them snacks, and tied shoes, and asked them to behave, and put the dishes away. She made decisions about dinner and baths. She was amazing. I sat and coughed in my haze and listened. Sometimes I came downstairs for a little and curled up on the couch and watched it all happen.

I was watching bits of my own early childhood - my mother at the stove, my mother on the floor building train tracks, my mother reading stories flanked by two small children who could easily have been my sister and me. This was so very familiar. I also had a sense that I was standing back and watching my own life with my kids; this was what we usually did. This was our life, and honestly, it looked pretty good. How nice to know!

I felt a continuity between her mothering and my own; I realized that what I do and how I do it with my kids is something I started learning a very, very long time ago. I wonder about Frances's far-off mothering. Will she hold her head just that way? Will she sing song after song with pleasure? Will she bring the same energy, and the same vulnerabilities to frustration, to life with her own babies?

(I also wondered about Gabriel, and how this chain of mothering will impact who he grows up to be, and how he fathers his children. I thought - am still thinking - about gender, and not without some sadness. It is harder to imagine him at the stove with trains at his feet as an adult - but of course my children surprise me all the time.)

And so, my mother gave us the extraordinary gift of her care. But she also gave me some perspective, and a sense of awe - I felt my own indebtedness to her, and to her mother and all the mothers who came before. Whether they were 'good mothers' or not, in ways that I am still unaware of, they brought me here.

And now, thank goodness, I am much better. What else has been keeping me from the blog? A delightful weekend spent with friends. Outings to Kinder Farm Park and the SERC, taking advantage of glorious sunny days.

And finally, a job possibility that has me very stirred up. There has been a lot of talking and a lot of thinking about this one in our house. Confronting change is never easy, is it?