The Mystery of Motherhood

Lisa and me in 1977

I have always loved kids. As a young teen I made a bunch of money babysitting kids. I like the idea of children; their infectious giggles, wobbly first steps, and matter-of-fact honesty that we all lose as we grow up. (well, except Chloe O'Brien. Hers is totally intact.) I can't begin to imagine a world or a society without them. I loved being a mommy, though my boatload of doubts over my mothering abilities point to the contrary. So it's natural to say I assumed I would have had a dozen of my own kids. Half a dozen at least. But, it turned out, two were my quota. Two had to suffice. And the two I have are more than enough for me. They fill my heart with joy and pride. They have brought experiences to my life that are incomparable to anything but a mother's world. It can sometimes be the most simple and intoxicating kind of love imaginable. But honestly, a mother's love is such an impossible kind of love. Just when you learn how something works, it all changes. You hang on tight, then it's time to let go. You want our children to grow up, but it's too soon to cut out naps. You pack up boxes of their outgrown clothes and later remember you weren't quite ready to let that little striped shirt go. You hug them close and risk being pushed away. But only you know their fears and their faces, in ways no one else ever could.  It's a mystery that is really no mystery at all. Not to you. Not to a mother.

Waiting for the countdown. SMILE! ~ 1983

It takes a lifetime of learning a simple truth. You will never, ever, ever learn it all. And before you're ready, before you've planned your next step, they're grown and they're moving on. And they don't need you in ways you were not prepared for. They're doing the adult thing, just like you taught them. And it's too late to take it back. And it hurts. Sometimes the ache is so deep you feel as if your heart will break in two. And then someone shares a glimpse of the love that is waiting for you. A love that cuts through the pain if only you can wait for it. It's the love for your grandchild. You hear the stories and you watch the incredible joy spread across the face of a sister or a friend when they describe the realities of being a grandma. And, for me at least, the wait can seem an eternity. But then it happens. You find out that your baby is having a baby. It doesn't seem real and it doesn't make you feel so different. Not yet. But slowly, your own child's heart turns back toward you and you find that you are needed again, but in ways that are richer, and deeper, and you wonder if your heart can possibly ever hold all the love and warmth and blessings that you begin to feel. A new mystery begins and you have learned to set a slower pace in finding all its facets. There is a child within your child. And it's real. And he kicks and he hiccups and he has his own name. And he has a beating heart with sounds that fill your ears with wonder and excitement. And there is that specialist of bonds now. The love you feel for your grandchild is new and different and sweet. It's blossoming. But you find that the bond you feel now toward your own child has changed. 

Relaxing with my daughter ~ 2010

You feel a connection with someone who knows that no one else will ever, ever, ever love their child in the way that only you can. It's a new kind of mother's love. And maybe it's a mystery. But it's really no mystery at all. I love you, Lisa Marie.  

~Susan Renee

Grampy's Story

Mandee and Grampy (Lorynne in background)

Grampy is almost 86 years old and not too happy about it. He doesn't like the kinks, jabs and irritations that come with living inside an 86 year old body. He told me he looked in the mirror the other day and wondered who that old man was. But then, Grampy's not too happy about anything and never has been. As long as I've known Grampy he's been a whining, foul-mouthed cantankerous old goat—and that's when he's in a good mood. But I sure do love him. 

Being so hale and hearty for most of his life, old age has fiercely walloped him hard and completely taken him by surprise. He finds his life revolving around doctor visits, prescription pills, Gunsmoke and naps, leaving less time for his favorite past-time—lunch at Der Wienerschnitzel. He used to take his little dog to Der Wienerschnitzel every day to get chili dogs. One for him and one for Mugsy. They'd go park the car in the shade by Longs Drug store and eat their hot dogs. Only he had to lick the chili off Mugsy's dog as the puppy didn't like chili. In all my infinite wisdom, I finally told him one day “Why don't you get yourself a chili dog and that dadburned dog of yours a mustard dog, hold the mustard?” (I used to work there. I know the lingo). He stared at me for a few seconds like I was a complete idiot then shouted “Hell no. I LIKE licking the chili off!” But now that his little dog is gone, even during a good week some of the charm has worn off and Der Wienerschnitzel visits are sporadic and farther between. 

Grampy was born Arthur Ronald Victor Berthiaume. Everyone calls him Tex. Quite a handle for a man who is 5'3” and weighs 120 on a good day. A strong wind could blow him over and we are careful to keep him inside on windy days. He is French Canadian which he's very proud of and speaks a strange dialect of French I don't understand and one they never taught me when I took four years of French in High School. So he'll come over in the summer and walk through the front door proclaiming it's hot outside “Ill faw fret!” He says. I told him his French doesn't make sense and that's not how I learned it. He told me the nuns in my high school were damn fools and lesbians and that they never lived in France. Well he's got me there.

He ran away from his violent, abusive father and none-too-happy home at the tender age of 13, taking his little brother Willie with him. They traveled from Phoenix, Arizona to Dallas, Texas in search of kinfolk in Dallas who they were hoping would take them in. This was 1938, during the Great Depression. Two boys could travel with the hobos, jumping trains and sleeping out in the open around campfires without being bothered by the police. But they weren't scared of the police. They were scared to death their father would find them and really kill them for good. He didn't. They made it to Dallas. At 18 Tex was drafted into WWII which he refers to as “The war to end all wars”. I told him “No. They actually called WWI 'The war to end all wars',not WWII”. (Wikipedia Dad, it's called the Internet) He didn't buy it. He gave me that long, hard stare and none-too-gently reminded me again of the mentally deficient, wayward nuns who taught me a whole crap load of nuthin' in school. He's got me there. 

Grampy raised his three boys by his cardinal rule “Do as I say or find yourself on the wrong end of my belt”. Period. Oh the stories I've heard of Grampy chasing one of the boys down the desert road they lived on, waving his belt over his head, cussing at the top of his lungs. His boys learned early on how to run and run FAST. Two of them won medals on the High School Track team. You could say they were motivated to succeed. He taught his boys to fight, be strong, work hard and to do anything for your family, even if they are no account idiots who never appreciated their parents. He told me once many years ago (when he had been drinking) that being a father was not his best accomplishment. D'ya think? He looked sad and forlorn when he said it. I felt badly for him. Or maybe his eyes were just glazed over from the tequila. I don't know. 

Tex has been my father in law for almost 39 years now and he's the only parent we have left. The others were too nice to last that long...Grampy's just too honery to die. I told him once he's going to out-live us all just to spite us. He got a little twinkle in his eye then took out his teeth and started preaching to me about flossing and brushing. He did that at the dinner table one Easter Sunday when we had all the kids, grandkids and “company” over as well. I consider “company” people who don't know us well enough to discern our dysfunctions yet. They still think we're pretty normal. And especially people who have never met Arthur Ronald Victor Berthiaume. He pulled out his dentures during dinner, wanting to show his great-grandkids what happens from a lifetime of not brushing your teeth on a regular basis. (hobo's don't have toothbrushes don't you know) I saw the wide-eyed, horrific stare from our "company" sitting across from him and quickly re-routed Grampy into another conversation, desperately trying to steer him, and us, away from the precipice of utter social doom. Our "company" has politely declined any further invitations to dinner. 

Tex has taught me many things that are check-listed on the hard drive of my memory. He's taught me to “look before you leap” and the pitfalls of jumping to erroneous conclusions, making a fool out of yourself in the grocery story when you raise a commotion at the check stand, swearing the carrots are on sale only to be calmly shown they aren't. He's taught me not to take life too seriously when, at that same check stand, he has no reservations about pulling up his threadbare, flannel shirt to show the astonished cashier the scar from his quadruple by-pass surgery. That's quadruple he says to emphasize the fact that his surgery was one better than triple. He's taught me that the acquisition of money is not the end-all to our existence and that the simple pleasures in life are not bought but they are enough. Watching the western channel with a good dog and a bowl of freshly popped popcorn on your lap is as good as it needs to get. It's enough.

Grampy lives in a single-wide trailer in a Senior's mobile home park, pretty close to us. He calls Mike (My husband, his son, his caretaker and lifeline) on the phone at least once a day. He leaves angry messages if it goes to voice mail, wondering why the hell Mike's not answering. Then he calls me. I think I'm the next best thing. Oftentimes I'm in a meeting at work. I always take his call. "Hi dad, what's up?" "Well I forgot—what day is it today?" "Tuesday Dad. It's Tuesday". "OK thanks". click. Or, more importantly, "I pressed the wrong damn button on this clicker here and now all I have is snow on the TV and Touched By An Angel. I'm missing the Rifleman and I don't even like Touched By An Angel!" So I step out of the meeting and talk him through the buttons on the remote control. 

I like to think he needs us, that we are his raison d'etre—his reason for existence. And maybe it's true. He would say "Ray zone du et! What the hell kind of language is that?" I have experienced enough parental loss to realize he won't be around much longer so I try to savor and even enjoy him while he's here. He makes us laugh at his eccentricities. He tests our patience and makes us better people. And every once in awhile, every once in a blue moon when his defenses are down, he'll come over to watch Bonanza with Mike and when he leaves he'll give me a hug, call me darlin' and tell me he loves me. And that makes it worth it. That's enough.

~ Mary Catherine ~