Category: Family ties

Guilt by Motherhood

What is it with American mothers?  American mothers say, “What am I doing wrong?”  European mothers say, “What’s wrong with this kid?”  ~Dr. Stephen Adelson

It started early and it seemed to come naturally.

No, not motherhood.

Guilt.  Guilt by Motherhood.

Dr. Adelson was our pediatrician.  We spent a lot of time in his office and now that his son is a politician, I have no doubt we were contributing to his campaign fund.  Anyway, after the third or fourth or seventeenth time of seeing the good doctor for the same, recurring ear infection, I felt like the worst mother in the world.  My son Stephen had so many ear infections the first 8 months of his life that he would drool at the sight of anything PINK.  Which may explain this now that I think of it…

Bodybuilding competition, 2006

And that’s when I asked him.  Dr. Adelson didn’t bat an eye or furrow his unibrow.  His answer has bounced around in my head for years.

What is it with American mothers?  American mothers say, “What am I doing wrong?”     European mothers say, “What’s wrong with this kid?”

Maybe it’s just me, thought I suspect I’m not alone, but whenever something went wrong with my kids, an illness or a bad grade or the VCR ate the tape with 8 episodes of Full House on it, it was MY FAULT.

Forgotten lunch money?  My fault.  Bad hair day?  My fault.

A few years ago my kids and I were talking about pregnancy and strange cravings.  I gushed about my first pregnancy with Stephen, telling him that I craved everything liquid – Coke, Hawaiian Punch, Tea, and of course, dill pickle juice.  He stared at me.  Then, he spoke.

“You drank CAFFEINE when you were pregnant with me?!”

The question hung in the air for what seemed like hours while I tried to come up with a lie compose myself.

And that’s the day I actually thanked God for cell phones because Stephen’s phone rang just in that moment and I didn’t have to explain the lie I was conjuring up in my head.

My kids didn’t blame me.  I did.  I apologized for EVERYTHING.

Don’t get me wrong.  I firmly believe that moms are human and we make mistakes and when we do, we should say we’re sorry.  But not EVERYTHING is our fault.

I’m trying to stop – really, I am.  Enough is enough.  And when the guilt becomes too much, then I do what appeases the guilt.  I bake.  I bake their favorite treats, buy their favorite snacks, put it in a big box along with a couple rolls of toilet paper (hey, you can never have too much) and ship it off to them.

I feel so much better, at least for a little while.  And then Courtney gets caught out in the rain in New York City without her umbrella and I apologize.  I feel guilty even though I had previously sent her not one, but two awesome umbrellas.  It’s my fault.  Time to bake.

Hmmm, maybe they’re on to me…

What was I thinking?

I’d like to be the ideal mother, but I’m too busy raising my kids. ~ unknown

Because my children are grown and have turned us into Eddie Albert and Eva Gabor – Stephen is a Texan and Courtney is in New York which means we will forever be torn between the two and could do our own remake of Green Acres – it’s not often that the four of us are together.  This past Christmas we were fortunate enough for that to happen.  Sitting around the dinner table that day, Stephen asked me a question that caught me off guard.

“What made you decide to have kids?  Were you bored and just needed something to do?  I mean, really, what were you thinking?”

Wow.  The truth is simple – we both wanted kids and it seemed the natural thing to do, and no, we weren’t thinking.  We weren’t thinking at all.

If I had any idea that being a mom would be so painful, that it’s a decision to forever have your heart exposed and subject to immense agony, if I had KNOWN?  I wouldn’t have chosen it.

There, I said it.

I would have done it differently.

If I had known that I would be wiping snot off a child’s nose onto my shirt while standing in line at the grocery store, I would have done it differently.

If someone had told me that childbirth would be the EASIEST part of being a parent, I would have done it differently.

If I had been able to see into the future and see the struggles my children would face, I would have done it differently.

If I had known that my children would grow up and vote for a Democrat, I would have done it differently.

There are times when I feel responsible for bringing two children into the world that have had to face life with a debilitating disease and had I known, I would never have subjected anyone to that kind of pain.

But my life would have been empty.  And the world would have missed out on having my kids in their midst.

If I had known that my son would shoot fireworks from his bedroom window and I would have to cover my face while I disciplined him so that he wouldn’t know I was laughing, I wouldn’t change a thing.

If I had known that the little girl who colored on my walls would grow up and make her mark on the world in New York City hundreds of miles from home, I wouldn’t change a thing.

If I had been able to see into the future and know that my heart would burst with pride every time I looked into their faces, I wouldn’t change a thing.

If I had known that my children would grow up and think for themselves and make their own decisions and LEAVE ME to go out and see the world and make their own homes, as adults, hundreds and hundreds of miles away from ME?  I wouldn’t change a thing.

Because my children are happy, my heart is full.  Because I have something to SHOW for how I spent the last 25 years of my life.  I have finally begun to experience a return on my investment and IT. IS. GOOD.

Being a mom is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.  And I wouldn’t change a thing.

Son

My heart is full.

My son Stephen will turn 23 on the 24th of April. I was 23 when I labored for days before giving birth to him 8 days past his due date. This will be the only time in our lives that I will be exactly twice his age and though I have time, experience and a bit of wisdom on my side, he has intelligence, drive, a passion to live his life to the fullest, and on May 15th, his college degree. I am so proud.

When he graduated from high school, I was overwhelmed with emotion. I knew that our life, our day to day family life, would never be the same.

It truly seems like yesterday that we took him to the University of Oklahoma and moved him into the dorm. It was a hot, hot August day, and boy’s dorms smell like, well, boys. After leaving him to get settled into that new chapter of his life, I cried the ENTIRE way home – the UGLY cry.

The following letter is what I wrote and read to Stephen the night he graduated from high school. For his college graduation gift I think I’m going to give him something a bit less emotional – luggage perhaps. At least it won’t make me cry…

Dear Stephen,

I just finished pressing and steaming your graduation gown that you will wear in just a few short days. It’s been hanging in your closet for a few weeks now, but every time I attempt to retrieve it so that I can iron it, I am unable to force myself to open the door. You may think that it’s the mess of your room that scares me, that keeps me from opening the door. And although that may be true the majority of the time; I hardly noticed the clutter today. Today I am focused. Today I have one of those motherly jobs to do; to get you, my son, ready for graduation.

As I stood over the ironing board, pressing your gown, I began to reminisce. I remembered your first day of school and how excited you were, so eager to learn, to take that step that says “I’m a big boy now.” You had picked out your clothes days in advance, wanting me to iron them so that you would look good for your new teacher. I combed your hair, washed your face and sent you off to spend your days learning your ABC’s and making new friends. I didn’t realize at the time what a journey I was sending you out on, or how quickly the next twelve years would pass.

Over the course of your school years, that journey brought much laughter and excitement to our home. Ours was the home where the ball teams congregated after a game, the home where the neighborhood kids showed up all hours of the day during the long days of summer, and your room became the hub of adventure. From building army forts out of cardboard boxes to exploring every nook and cranny of the woods near our home, you never tired of learning and creating. Even becoming a teenager didn’t stop your adventures, or the flow of your friends traipsing through our house. Now that you were older, your ventures stretched to campouts, first in the safety of our back yard, then to the rivers and lakes around us, your longing to sleep under the stars consuming you.

High school brought girls into the picture, along with proms and dates, and sometimes broken hearts. It brought cars and jobs and curfews. You could iron your own clothes by now, but still relied on me to press out the wrinkles in your life. Your room became a breeding ground for making memories, as you and your friends filled our home with laughter, sharing your stories of adventure with us. But your thirst for life never dimmed; your motto to live it to the fullest, without limitations.

And now you’re starting the next phase in your journey. There is no more time to spend instilling values in you. No more time to encourage you to make the right decisions. No more time to set the example. If I haven’t given you the tools to lead a successful life by now, it’s probably too late. Time will tell if I’ve taught you everything you need to know to be a productive member of our society.

Only now do I realize that raising you was not a dress rehearsal, I don’t get a second chance, no do-overs. This is it.

Your cap and gown are ready, hanging on your door, symbolizing the end of one stage of your life and the beginning of the next. No wrinkles for now. When you put it on in a few days, you should know that eighteen years of joy and reflection, hope and expectation, along with your mother’s tears, have been pressed into the fabric of this robe and the fabric of your life that will cover you as you walk away from me and toward your future.

Wear it well, son, wear it well.

Stephen’s first summer – loved those curls!

No time like the present…

Having not emptied my brain for several weeks, I feel the need to purge the thoughts that have been invading the little space I have left in my head to make room for new ones. For some strange reason I’ve yet to understand, my clearest thinking occurs at the most inopportune times.

Soaking in the bathtub, for example, is not the best place to bring a pen and paper – it’s impossible to write with wet, soapy, wrinkled fingers. Drying my hair also seems to provoke contemplation on various topics, perhaps because of the lengthy time it takes to complete the process. Left with the option of moving the computer into the bathroom or washing and drying my hair several times a day, I’m tempted to plug the hair dryer next to the computer and listen to the rush of hot air for inspiration.

The need to share EVERYTHING, but consumed with the fear of being too vulnerable, too transparent, leaves me in limbo. Trying to convince myself that caring what others think doesn’t matter, but I’m only able to believe it until someone judges me and I feel wounded. I have grown accustomed to judgment by now, but not to the human side of me that still hurts when it happens. If there was a guarantee that read “no family members were harmed during the process of blogging” I would be able to remove these chains that bind me and WRITE.

Perhaps I underestimate the broadness and strength of their shoulders. My children are adults, my husband loves me, and maybe I’m over analyzing. My commitment to being the real me and living in truth is important. Mistakes, choices, and all that is a part of me is potentially not as big as I make it.

When I was 5 or 6 or 7 years old – too much time has passed to know exactly – my dad taught school but during the summer he managed the city swimming pool. I remember it as HUGE, but having seen it as an adult, it was not nearly as large as my memory of it. It was oval in shape, shallow around the entire edge, growing deeper towards the center where two diving boards stood facing each other. One was low; the line to jump from it was always long. The other was high, disappearing into the clouds… (I was a kid, ok? My perception at that time is my reality, so get over it already) and though the wait was shorter, the climb up the hundreds of stairs took forever. Getting to the top was the easy part, walking out onto that platform TO THE EDGE made the urge to empty my bladder overwhelming and still makes my legs tremble just thinking about it.

My dad had a rule – what goes up must come down. In other words, if I chose to ascend the steps of the “high dive” the only way down was to stand at the end – not the side – the end of the board and JUMP. With only seconds to pray for a painless entry into the water, tuning out the “hurry up’s” being voiced behind me, I would ever so carefully ease myself into the air. Eyes squeezed tightly closed, my body waiting for the inevitable slap of the water, plunging deep and then forcing myself to the surface, reaching it at the precise time my lungs were close to bursting was…amazing.

My head holds me back while my heart is exploding with the need to share my life experiences. It’s time to start the journey. I will never know “amazing” until I walk to the edge and jump.

Daughter

There is absolutely nothing that compares to having a daughter. Although I missed out on a relationship with my own mother, I’ve tried to create that bond with Courtney, my precious girl.

It wasn’t always easy. She was so very STUBBORN. Even before the doctor removed her from my womb, she was crying, demanding attention. I think she screamed the first six months of her life, but it seemed like it would never end. Her brother, Stephen, though only 2 years older than she, even asked me at one point if the doctor could “put her back in and pull out a brother.” Little did I know that the personality that God had given her when she was conceived would be my biggest challenge as her mother.

My favorite memory of the many, many times she insisted on her way was when I caught her creating “art” in the hallway. Stephen had done the same thing when he was about her age, but a simple scolding and telling him how disappointed his dad would be was all that was needed to stop him. Courtney was a different story. Upon discovery, I found her very focused on her work. But when I told her to stop, threatening to spank her (yes, in those days, spanking was an option) instead of stopping, she ran from me, dragging the colored marker along the way.

At the age of 2, Courtney was making her mark on my walls. My job – to mold her (and channel her creativity away from my walls onto paper) without breaking her spirit. She was so insistent on her own way, and daily had to be “reminded” that in life, there are rules.

I used to go to bed at night and cry over the many times during the day I had to discipline her. Exhausted, I felt a combination of guilt and responsibility. I knew I had to win the battle, yet had to choose which battles to fight.

There were days I thought she would one day grow up to despise me, when all I wanted was for her to be the woman she was created to be. I made mistakes. I yelled. I even crossed the line and read her diary when she was a teen, desperate to know her, to mother her, and to keep her from making wrong choices as I had done.

It is so hard to believe that she is no longer a child, but a woman. A woman I respect, admire, and am proud of. I want to be her when I grow up.

All those disputes over silly things have proven that in spite of my many flaws as her mother, she has embraced the gifts given to her. That stubborn facet of her personality is the pillar that gives her courage to face challenges and adversity.

Her stubbornness paid off in December, 2005 when she received not only the acceptance letter granting her admission to New York University, but a full tuition scholarship. I had never been so proud, and yet so sad at the same time.

Leaving her in that dorm room in New York that September day, 2006, was probably one of the hardest days of my life. I cried, and cried, and cried. Ugly cry. Crying so much my own husband didn’t want to sit next to me on the plane ride back to Oklahoma. My baby had grown up overnight, and now she was 1500 miles away…

I absolutely, completely, and unabashedly love my Courtney. I live my life through her. The opportunities she has been given by being at NYU are priceless. Missing her is something that I’ve grown accustomed to, but there are times when the tears fall and I want to hold her, to hug her, to tuck her in at night and know that she’s safe.

That stubbornness that God gave her, that caused me so much grief, has paid off. Without that, she would never be able to make it in the Big Apple, and as they say, if she can make it there, she can make it anywhere.

Just like that day when she was little more than 2 years old, she is making her mark on the world. So many gifts. Graphics, design, music, movies – you name it – when it comes to entertainment media, she’s the expert. But when she writes, when she puts words together, when she takes the 26 letters of the alphabet and creates a journalistic masterpiece, she amazes me. She inspires me to be better.

Courtney Hopkins. Remember it. Someday, somehow, that name will be synonymous with greatness. And I am so proud to call her daughter, friend, and most of all, my inspiration.