No really, BABY, I’m talking to you.
Get outta here.
I want my body back.
I read a quote on Candace Salima’s blog this morning.
Thomas Jefferson once said, “All tyranny needs to gain a foothold is for people of good conscience to remain silent.”
My girls parked it on the floor behind my buggy with a People magazine. They always do this to pass the time, but this time they couldn’t completely concentrate. They were totally distracted by what was unfolding in front of us, as was I.
While the new checker was completely oblivious, these little girls started loading up their arms with whatever they wanted from the shelves surrounding the check stands. We may not have paid much attention either, but they were knocking down a bunch of stuff while in the process, and I was surprised that their mothers didn’t do anything about it. My girls were most certainly coveting some of the toys, lip glosses, and candy that they were gathering, but never said a word. They know that their allowance would have to be used and I was delighted that the magazine combined with these younger children misbehaving was distracting them from their usual, “Mom do I have enough money to buy this?”
So, on with the story, I was floored because the mother directed the children in Spanish to get a bag from the check stand and to put their stuff in it. The girls each got a bag and did exactly that. What really triggered me is that these sweet little girls kept adding to their loot. They were so excited about all their stuff and kept hugging one another and telling each other gracias and that they loved each other.
I looked to the front of the store to see if I could go and forewarn a worker before their exit, but there was just a teenage kid at the greeting place. I knew it was all up to me.
As the moms finished their shopping. I felt a twinge of guilt. I knew what I was about to do, but I have to say that I almost didn’t because I felt sympathy as they used the last of their food stamps and were counting change to pay for the remaining bill. They had only bought one non-food item, fabric softener. These children were clean and had obviously been cared for physically. They had cute little outfits on and darling sandals.
But, I forged ahead, as it wasn’t their physical needs I was worried about. My motherly instincts came out in full force as anxiety swept over me for the moral character they were being taught. Who teaches a three year old to steal? Especially when you live in a country that basically hands you everything you need, whether you are a citizen or not. And these girls were loaded up with non-essentials. Believe it or not, I was kind of scared. I started the inner dialogue with myself so that I could find the courage to do the right thing.
Right as the second woman was finishing up and the first woman had gathered all the girls around the buggy to leave, I approached. I looked the woman straight in the eye and pointing to the children and their loot bags I said, “They did not pay for those things. They can’t just take them.”
This mom was stunned. She gave me a non appreciative look which silently stated, “Mind your own business.”, but proceeded to take the things from the girls and she placed them on the adjacent check stand. She never quit glaring at me. The one little girl (who I believe belonged to this first woman) went ballistic, throwing a pretty good kiddy tantrum. The other two twins almost seemed relieved.
I guess they don’t want to live among tyranny either.
And, someday maybe my kids will remember me as a mom who wasn’t afraid to stand up for what was right. I hope they won’t just think that I don’t know how to mind my own business because I could have very easily kept my mouth shut.
The moral of the story: don’t check out in front of me if you are the kind of parent who corrupts my world. This mom happens to be one who still believes in the pillars of moral character that they teach at school. (Ironic that I took this photo at the school just one hour before this incident occured, huh?) And I believe in doing what it takes to teach my daughters and yours, and when you fail, you give that right to me.
The word can be whispered or belted. Shrieked or endeared. It has a version in every language known to mankind and is often the first word mastered by a developing infant. I am pretty sure that there are even distinct animal noises used for its meaning. I swear sometimes I can hear our family cat meow it out when she wants to get in or out of the house.
This one word can be enunciated with many different dialects even by the same child. It has endless amounts of pronunciations….the one syllable miraculously changes in tone, depending on the circumstance.
You hear it at the grocery store from a wandering child. The tone a little frightened but loud and strong, “Mom?!” Sometimes you go searching for a lost one, even though you know that none of yours are there. Some of yours may be lost, so, you just can’t help but make sure that the one calling out is not.
What about the eulogy so powerful it brought the room to tears….”most of all, she is my mom, and always will be, and to me nothing else is more important about her.”
The teenager tends to irreverence the name the most, “Just ignore her; pretend she’s not my mom.”
I even heard a police officer once tell a classroom full of children: “If you are ever in trouble, get safe as fast as possible. If someone is hurting you, tell a teacher, or a police officer, or find a mom with kids as fast as you can.”
Perhaps the sweetest utterances of the one all powerful word are the ones from little children. They seem to use the word more than anyone. The word seems to work in all circumstances for all of their needs. Let me give you a few examples from my own experience.
“Mom, I didn’t get elected for student council. Mom….” followed by incoherent sobs.
“MOM!!!! Her hair, it’s tangled up in the rope swing…..Hurry mom.”
“Guess what, mom?”
“Mom, I think there is chocolate in the carpet, or maybe it’s poop?”
“Mom, it hurts so bad.”
“Mom, are you coming on my field trip?”
“Mom, don’t forget your camera.”
“Mom, I need a band-aid.”
“Mom, she’s bugging me again.”
“Mom, will you read me a story?”
“Mom, will you please stop taking pictures!?”
“Mom, I don’t want to go to the hospital.”
“Mom, I drew you a picture….look, the big one is you, and the little one is me.”
“Mom, I had a bad dream.”
“Make her stop, mom.”
“Mom, I don’t want to set the table.”
“Mom, I’m hungry.”
“Mom, I’m bored.”
“Mom, I can’t find my shoes.”
“Mom, can we go to the movies?”
“Mom, where is my library book?”
“Mom, when is dad coming home?”
“Mom’s what for dinner?”
“Mom, can you check my homework?”
“Mom, can you help me clean my room?”
“Mom, I am sick of spelling.”
“No, mom, I am not tired.”…followed by sobbing, slight nodding, and the sweet sound of heavy breathing.
Every utterance of the word seems to carry a different emotion and a different intonation. The whole spectrum is in there. It’s as if, just by simply adding “mom”, magic will be inevitable. Mom can make everything o.k. Mom can motivate. Mom can comfort. Mom can fix. Mom knows all. Mom is almost omnipotent. Mom is totally versatile, even when she doesn’t budge. Mom can tell you what you need to hear, even when she is a push over.
Sometimes when the word mom is added to a sentence it completely brightens one’s existence.
“Mom, you are the best mom in the whole wide world.”
“Mom, you are beautiful.”
“Mom, I love you.”
Or one of the best ever:
“When I grow up, I want to be a mom, just like you.”
There are many moments in many days when a mother cannot think of anything better to be called than simply mom. You can give her awards or accolades or certificates or trophies, but nothing outdoes this simple statement of pure admiration, “I want to be a mom”, followed with, “just like you.” No nickname, no term of endearment, not even a kiss from the man you love can make you feel as good as that kid that wants to be just like you. There is no higher compliment.
Of course there are times when we use the word in reference to someone other than our own. I recently heard this from a friend.
“I always wished my mom was more like yours.”
It’s funny because I always wanted my mom to be more like Melanie’s. Man! Toast and hot chocolate never tasted so good. My mom was not a morning person, and Melanie’s mom fed me breakfast almost every morning of junior high school. Why? Because she was a mom. And I had the privilege of watching her answer to every one of Melanie’s “moms” while simultaneously filling my empty stomach as I waited for Melanie, my walking partner.
Now I find my kids using the psychological tactic on me, “Mom, why can’t you be more like so and so’s mom?” I return with the oldy but goodie: “Because her mom doesn’t love her as much as I love you, that’s why. No mom should let their child roam the neighborhood like that.”
As a mom, there is one thing you realize more than anything: moms aren’t perfect. Even if our name carries a need for perfection, all moms screw up. This mom is no different. It’ll be o.k. if my daughters grow up wishing that I was different. Heck, I wish I was different too. They can admire those other moms, and they can even want to be like them when they grow up. It doesn’t diminish the joy that I have in being their mom.
Some days I try to be like Melanie’s mom. I especially have to remember that best tasting toast and hot chocolate every morning when I drag this non-morning mother out of bed. But, most days, I shock myself, because I find myself being a mom that frighteningly resembles my own. I am sure that I say things from time to time that my kids don’t want to hear, striking them with fear. I know my mom isn’t going to tell me what I want to hear most of the time, but who is it that I call when I really need advice?
“Mom, what do you think about….”
“Thanks mom, I feel so much better now.”
When my children hear mom, I am sure they mostly think of me. Sometimes I am sure they will say the one word with terror.
“Mom, I spilled the whole gallon of milk again.”
I know that they will also say the word with admiration. Hopefully more often than with terror.
“Mom, you are so good at cleaning.”
I just pray that when they grow up, no matter whose mom they take after, they will realize that this mom is the one that loved them the most. Hopefully that one word, mom, will mostly bring them comfort. And nothing makes me feel better, except for maybe a compliment from my mom. Especially when it’s:
“Oh Alice, you are such a great mom.”
I’m 30 weeks pregnant.
Spring has brought on time constraints with a vengence.
There recently was a death of a 98 year-old lady named Irena.
During WWII, Irena, got permission to work in the Warsaw Ghetto, as a Plumbing/Sewer specialist. She had an ‘ ulterior motive ‘ … She KNEW what the Nazi’s plans were for the Jews, (being German.)
Irena smuggled infants out in the bottom of the tool box she carried and she carried in the back of her truck a burlap sack, (for larger kids.) She also had a dog in the back that she trained to bark when the Nazi soldiers let her in and out of the ghetto. The soldiers of course wanted nothing to do with the dog and the barking covered the kids/infants noises.
During her time of doing this, she managed to smuggle out and save 2500 kids/infants. She was caught, and the Nazi ‘ s broke both her legs, arms and beat her severely. Irena kept a record of the names of all the kids she smuggled out and kept them in a glass jar, buried under a tree in her back yard.
After the war, she tried to locate any parents tha t may have survived it and reunited the family. Most of course had been gassed. Those kids she helped got placed into foster family homes or adopted.
Last year Irena was up for the Nobel Peace Prize … She was not selected.
* Al Gore won, for a slide show on Global Warming.
My last post was about Duane working at the same place for 40 years.
Now I just read a news story about a time frame of 2 years. It was extremely disturbing. I was going to post this tomorrow, but it is so disturbing, I thought it would make for a good April’s Fools Day….EXCEPT it’s NOT a joke!
Two mothers in Russia, were forced by the courts to re-swap their 2 year old sons. They had been sent home with the wrong mothers at birth.
“Both sons are having a hard time adjusting to their new homes”, are the words at the end of the report.
Yeah, duh?
This story reminds me of the mothers in the Bible who came to King Solomon with one dead child. You know the “real mother”. The one who said to let the other “selfish lady” keep the child because she couldn’t bare for Solomon to cut it in half.
I like to think I would be the mom who would give the other lady her son back, and tell her to keep mine too. It would break my heart to take a child away from the only mother he has ever known. And then I would pray like heck that some sane judge out there would be as wise as Solomon and let me keep the child that I thought was mine.
Can you imagine giving a child up after two years? I don’t care what the DNA tests say. Giving mine up (the one that looked like me or not) would be seriously life altering….like permanent residence in a mental institution altering.
At the top….that’s Bella at not quite two. Man she was so cute!!!!
Thank goodness no one mixed her up at the hospital. If she didn’t look so much like me, I would almost worry now.
Two minutes is all it takes to change a mother’s perspective….well, I guess not all mothers’ perspectives.
Is it just me or is the mom that pursued her mixed up child crazy????
Marla, my friend, was frustrated that her well-behaved 3 year old had taken a red dry erase marker and colored all over the place. “Red” she mused. “Why did it have to be red?” all over his arms, his toys, and most frustrating the newly painted walls. My mind traveled back; back to California in 1995.
My parents were forced to sell my childhood home. Dad had been out of a job for a long time, and we had to go, so we were packing. I was now an adult, helping out mom and dad. Mom was bawling. I said to mom, “It’s just a house mom. It’s not going to be our home anymore. It’ll be o.k. We’ll make a new home.” Those words have haunted me repeatedly for the past 14 years. My understanding was so limited.
Mom and I stepped into the now converted living room. A wall had been knocked out of my childhood bedroom. We started removing furniture and there it was! We found the memory right behind the couch. It was crayon. It was on the wall. It was the coloring contest that mom could never bring herself to paint over. My brother and sister and I had been quiet in my bedroom. Mom knew we were up to no good. She came in to find us beaming with pride. We weren’t afraid of mom; we wanted her to judge whose picture was the best. She proclaimed Adam’s “Superman” the most creative, but immediately complimented his younger sisters on their handiwork also.
And so the story goes. Mom knew how to love kids. She would never break a tender heart over some crayon. A wall was never worth it.
I now have three little ones. Mom’s wisdom is always with me. I am not as patient as her, but I want to be. I try and keep my walls clean because I want to have a nice home. But, honestly, when all is said and done, I want my home to be a place where I raised character, not wall perfection.
It’s my dream. I want to build a home where there is a room just for writing on the walls. This home would be a place where kids would feel loved. It doesn’t need to be fancy. It just needs to be “home”. I want to carry on my mom’s legacy. I want to be a mother who creates a fantasy world for each tenderhearted child. What a dream.
alice w. gold 
