A Mother's Day Welcome

1994

Shifts on the Crisis Hotline followed a pattern. Some callers wanted basic information about food, clothing, or shelter; others needed to hold on, white-knuckled, to life until the suicidal urge had passed. Some callers were “regulars,” the mentally ill who called to hear a familiar voice. I could depend on this formula, shift after shift.

Then there was Mother’s Day.

“My mother died and I miss her.” “My family has ignored me on Mother’s Day.” “I’m angry with my mother.” “I never got to be a mother.” “I hate being a mother.” Each call was a cry of pain, and it took all of my training to maintain calm in the face of the emotions that slammed against me through the telephone. When I left, I shook all the way home, blindsided. Mother’s Day had touched people at their deepest primal core. I did not have my own experience of Mother’s Day. I was full of the optimism of youth and the arrogance to think that I was immune to this suffering.

I am wiser now.

2005

They didn’t want to meet me. Sarah, a budding artist with a vivid imagination and a streak of cynicism, assumed I was a midlife crisis girlfriend. Joe, less vocal, felt equally cautious. Estranged from their own mother, they did not want a stranger to impose upon their tender, battered family unit.

As I waited for the right time to meet them, though, I looked at homework, at art projects, at all the tangible evidence of their existence. I offered advice to my sweetheart on “girl world” as he took Sarah shopping for shoes, feeling like I already knew her.

When said teenaged girl lay sobbing on the floor, hating my very existence, that, too, I understood. How could she respond any differently? I, too, had sobbed over the unfairness of life since that Mother’s Day. First, a miscarriage. Nine months later, a stillbirth. After that, the silence of infertility and a divorce. Sarah and I shared something in common: the longing for a family not meant to be.

Still, my relationship with Henry had blossomed into something special, and finally, the moment had come. Sarah saw that I was short and middle-aged, with no visible signs of plastic surgery. Joe, pleased that I brought snacks, pronounced, “You can stay,” a phrase he would repeat often during the next several months whenever I made homemade goodies.

Thrust suddenly into quasi-motherhood (Joe’s name for it), I discovered what life was like for mothers. I learned that children don’t care that I hate to shop; they need clothes. Did you know that kids want what they want when they want it, and they don’t care if you need to get a good night’s sleep the night before a workday? Did you know that the sun, moon, and stars revolve around them, and anything different from that is met with rebellion? I didn’t. Honestly.

My free time, once taken for granted, disappeared. I had to share a partner with his children, who sometimes needed him when I did. I felt overwhelmed, exhausted, and confused. “Welcome to parenthood,” my friends said with a laugh. I began to admire parents, including my own, in a way I never had before.

We settled in to a routine, both unsettling and fulfilling. This was their senior year: college applications, graduations, and birthdays. I learned that I could write the Great American Novel, but stop from time to time to check out a silly web site. I mastered the fine art of wrapping up a discussion about the Worst Teacher in the World in time to fit in my yoga practice. Late-night hot chocolate and intimate conversation took precedence over beauty rest.

I did my best to be like a mother to them, even though I had no idea what I was doing. When Sarah created her first short film, I was beside her, watching it over and over again, as she asked, “What do you think? Do you like it? Is it good?” Yes, I loved it, and I loved the repeat viewings. When Joe needed a tux for prom, I took him, getting all the pleasure from watching these kids grow up, of sharing their special moments, good and bad.

***

Mother’s Day. With my stepchildren I had found a delightful path to motherhood, and yet I was once again falling into the abyss of loss. In some ways it felt even worse this year, because now I knew what I had missed. And what about my own children, these spirits, these ghosts, forever babies that I would never know? I retreated to my room, feeling cheated in spite of, and perhaps because of, the new life I was living.

Henry presented me with a wooden box, hand carved with the Tree of Life, meant to contain condolence cards, photos, and footprints, memories of my daughter. As I moved my pitiful treasures into it, I felt Henry welcome my phantom children into the family.

Sarah, meantime, began to cook in a frenzy, making a big batch of chocolate chip pancakes. The fact that she had never learned to cook did not deter her! She brought the pancakes upstairs, and we blended chocolate, laughter, and tears into a recipe for healing.

If I’d known in 1994 what I know now, would I have handled the Mother’s Day callers differently? I wonder if they would have noticed some subtle difference, a greater depth of understanding for their plight. Maybe they would have felt deep inside that yes, I know how tough this day can be.

Without those wounds, would I have been prepared to love Joe and Sarah as deeply as I do? Would I have been able to respect their own grief? I suspect that my pain was a preparation for all of us. I know that I can never replace their mother, just as they can never replace my children. Still, we have found each other, and we are a family.A MOTHER’S DAY WELCOME

By Nadine Feldman

1994

Shifts on the Crisis Hotline followed a pattern. Some callers wanted basic information about food, clothing, or shelter; others needed to hold on, white-knuckled, to life until the suicidal urge had passed. Some callers were “regulars,” the mentally ill who called to hear a familiar voice. I could depend on this formula, shift after shift.

Then there was Mother’s Day.

“My mother died and I miss her.” “My family has ignored me on Mother’s Day.” “I’m angry with my mother.” “I never got to be a mother.” “I hate being a mother.” Each call was a cry of pain, and it took all of my training to maintain calm in the face of the emotions that slammed against me through the telephone. When I left, I shook all the way home, blindsided. Mother’s Day had touched people at their deepest primal core. I did not have my own experience of Mother’s Day. I was full of the optimism of youth and the arrogance to think that I was immune to this suffering.

I am wiser now.

2005

They didn’t want to meet me. Sarah, a budding artist with a vivid imagination and a streak of cynicism, assumed I was a midlife crisis girlfriend. Joe, less vocal, felt equally cautious. Estranged from their own mother, they did not want a stranger to impose upon their tender, battered family unit.

As I waited for the right time to meet them, though, I looked at homework, at art projects, at all the tangible evidence of their existence. I offered advice to my sweetheart on “girl world” as he took Sarah shopping for shoes, feeling like I already knew her.

When said teenaged girl lay sobbing on the floor, hating my very existence, that, too, I understood. How could she respond any differently? I, too, had sobbed over the unfairness of life since that Mother’s Day. First, a miscarriage. Nine months later, a stillbirth. After that, the silence of infertility and a divorce. Sarah and I shared something in common: the longing for a family not meant to be.

Still, my relationship with Henry had blossomed into something special, and finally, the moment had come. Sarah saw that I was short and middle-aged, with no visible signs of plastic surgery. Joe, pleased that I brought snacks, pronounced, “You can stay,” a phrase he would repeat often during the next several months whenever I made homemade goodies.

Thrust suddenly into quasi-motherhood (Joe’s name for it), I discovered what life was like for mothers. I learned that children don’t care that I hate to shop; they need clothes. Did you know that kids want what they want when they want it, and they don’t care if you need to get a good night’s sleep the night before a workday? Did you know that the sun, moon, and stars revolve around them, and anything different from that is met with rebellion? I didn’t. Honestly.

My free time, once taken for granted, disappeared. I had to share a partner with his children, who sometimes needed him when I did. I felt overwhelmed, exhausted, and confused. “Welcome to parenthood,” my friends said with a laugh. I began to admire parents, including my own, in a way I never had before.

We settled in to a routine, both unsettling and fulfilling. This was their senior year: college applications, graduations, and birthdays. I learned that I could write the Great American Novel, but stop from time to time to check out a silly web site. I mastered the fine art of wrapping up a discussion about the Worst Teacher in the World in time to fit in my yoga practice. Late-night hot chocolate and intimate conversation took precedence over beauty rest.

I did my best to be like a mother to them, even though I had no idea what I was doing. When Sarah created her first short film, I was beside her, watching it over and over again, as she asked, “What do you think? Do you like it? Is it good?” Yes, I loved it, and I loved the repeat viewings. When Joe needed a tux for prom, I took him, getting all the pleasure from watching these kids grow up, of sharing their special moments, good and bad.

***

Mother’s Day. With my stepchildren I had found a delightful path to motherhood, and yet I was once again falling into the abyss of loss. In some ways it felt even worse this year, because now I knew what I had missed. And what about my own children, these spirits, these ghosts, forever babies that I would never know? I retreated to my room, feeling cheated in spite of, and perhaps because of, the new life I was living.

Henry presented me with a wooden box, hand carved with the Tree of Life, meant to contain condolence cards, photos, and footprints, memories of my daughter. As I moved my pitiful treasures into it, I felt Henry welcome my phantom children into the family.

Sarah, meantime, began to cook in a frenzy, making a big batch of chocolate chip pancakes. The fact that she had never learned to cook did not deter her! She brought the pancakes upstairs, and we blended chocolate, laughter, and tears into a recipe for healing.

If I’d known in 1994 what I know now, would I have handled the Mother’s Day callers differently? I wonder if they would have noticed some subtle difference, a greater depth of understanding for their plight. Maybe they would have felt deep inside that yes, I know how tough this day can be.

Without those wounds, would I have been prepared to love Joe and Sarah as deeply as I do? Would I have been able to respect their own grief? I suspect that my pain was a preparation for all of us. I know that I can never replace their mother, just as they can never replace my children. Still, we have found each other, and we are a family.