**When I wrote this, it was for an essay contest. The prompt was: when did you first understand the true meaning of 'love'? I sat down to answer the question, sure it was when I saw the face of my child for the first time. But as I wrote, an entirely different understanding took shape. One that I experienced months before my son was born. The following essay is what resulted. My Mother has taught me many, many things in my life, and I suspect she'll teach me more, yet. But of all the lessons I've learned from her; LOVE is the root, the pulse, the heart of every one. How blessed I am in love, AS a Mother, and IN my Mother. I didn't win the essay contest. But when it comes to my Mom? I win every time :) And so.....this is for my Mother; my teacher.**
April Showers Bring May Flowers
My Mother is quite the fabulous gardener. It's fitting her parents named her April, with her love of spring and all its blossoms. As a child growing up in Illinois, I can remember countless summer nights trailing behind her in my bare feet as she watered the Geraniums which lined our driveway. I recall how she would plant tulip bulbs in the fall and how, like magic almost, they would somehow know to bloom in the spring, with their bright and cheerful dispositions, after the ground had thawed and winter had passed. Wearing her wide brimmed straw hat and her jean overalls, she would methodically replace dirt, pull weeds, and carefully tend to each plant. In hindsight, I imagine that she cherished those peaceful, quiet moments with the earth. They were a stark contrast (a welcome reprieve!) from the animated chaos generated by my two brothers, my sister, and myself; and any other children who might find their way into our backyard. However, and to her credit, she never shooed us away when we frequently interrupted. She would affectionately attend to wrongdoings, hurts, hungry bellies, and curious minds, all the while planting, patting, watering, and grooming her garden. Among her Impatiens, my Mom was the most patient and loving soul a little girl could have asked for.In early 2004, those sun-soaked days of my childhood could have happened 100 years ago for all I knew. A university sophomore at 20 years old, I had the important college staples; a Dave Matthews poster, a boyfriend, and a roommate with a car. Throw in mediocre grades and a part-time job, and I was feeling pretty good about myself. Midterms came and went…spring break came and went…my period never showed up. Two pink lines later, my boyfriend and I were ‘discussing our options.’ . I was humiliated and frightened, as well as heartbroken. I didn’t want to quit school, or be a single Mom, or sacrifice my future. Yes, I was 20, not 16, but I wasn’t married and I hadn’t completed my education. I didn’t want to miss studying abroad, and parties, and tailgating in the fall because I was busy with midnight feedings! After lots of tears and contentious debates, we decided our only alternative was going to be adoption. Though still confused, and heartbroken, I comforted myself with the notion that I would be making someone else’s life better, rather than making mine what I was convinced would be worse.
It was with this decision in hand, if not in heart, that I set out to tell my parents. I was sure they would be disappointed in me, but I was also certain they would support my choice. Boy, did I miscalculate. Almost instantly, they expressed disappointment and hurt, particularly my Mother. I became immediately defensive, and we engaged in a heated discussion, resulting in the inevitable sequence of ‘words I wish I could take back.’ At one point, she left the room in tears. It was a surreal departure from our day to day relationship.
Looking to my Dad for answers, I began to cry in earnest. ‘Why was she acting like this? Couldn’t she see how much I needed her support? I thought she would be proud of me for doing something so selfless?’ I’ll never forget how old my Dad looked that day, rubbing his bearded face with both hands, leaning forward on the couch where my Mom and I had watched a hundred movies together; had a thousand conversations. He asked me why I hadn’t come to them sooner; reminding me how fortunate I am to have a family willing and able to help. He pointed out that I hadn’t stopped to consider their feelings, or even asked their opinion in making, what he estimated to be, the biggest decision of my life. In 60 seconds or less, I had revealed I was pregnant, AND I was choosing adoption. They didn’t know what to react to first! Of course she was bewildered. I tried not to let on that I was finding myself ‘bewildered’, too.
Before leaving, I appealed to my Mom one last time to try and understand where I was coming from. And with a matched amount of pain and worry, she begged me to reconsider. She stood at the door with a look of desperation in her eyes, imploring me to let her help. But I was both ashamed and full of youthful pride. Mostly, I was scared. I left that night with a lump in my throat bigger than the bump in my belly. For the next two months we hardly spoke, apart from the occasional phone call or email. I would act like things were normal, and she would always ask the same questions; ‘Can we please talk about this? Can’t I change your mind?’ The truth was, I had never fully made up my mind to begin with, but saying this out loud would mean I would finally have to. Eventually, we stopped speaking completely.
When May rolled around, I finally broke down and went home for Mother’s Day, an event I was dreading. I was sure my Mom would use it as another excuse to push what I was now privately calling the ‘grandparent agenda’. Sure enough, I found a card and a wrapped gift waiting for me on my old bed. The card read; ‘For a Mommy-to-be. Hoping your Mother’s Day is filled with joy and love, today and always.’ It was like taking a bullet. I gingerly opened the package, terrified I would find a baby book, or little booties, or any other item which might finally induce the rapidly approaching nervous breakdown. However, mercifully, she had only wrapped a few maternity tank tops in preparation for the coming summer months. My eyes filled as I desperately wished I could go back in time. Why couldn’t life just make sense? Why did each choice have to be so insurmountable? Why did it have to hurt so much, require so much sacrifice?
I stayed in my old room until the sun had gone down that day. I thought about my childhood, and my Mom, and how wonderful it all was. I lamented how, in my pregnant state, I felt closer to her now than ever, but how far away she seemed. I really thought for the first time about the person growing inside me, about how fearful I was for his or her uncertain future. I was 20! I had no income. No degree. I was in a young, unstable relationship. How could I possibly give this child a good life!?
The only answers I got were loud grumbles from my empty stomach. Tiptoeing into the kitchen, I found my Mother sitting, quietly reading a book. She looked up and took off her glasses, patting the seat next to her. With some trepidation, I sat down. In a small, tearful voice I asked her if she hated me. Equally tearful, she took my face in her hands. ‘My girl,’ she said. ‘I don’t hate you. I will never, ever hate you. But I won’t pretend to understand you.’ She went on to share with me her belief that of all her children, I had always been the most demonstrative toward others. She explained that because of the person she knew me to be, she couldn’t wrap her mind around the notion that I wasn’t even considering being a Mother to this child. With such tender love, she described her feeling of loss on my behalf. She was frantic to spare me from the possibility of forever looking back with regret.
I looked at my Mom, looking at me, and it suddenly occurred to me: she wasn’t trying to protect herself from disappointment; she was trying to protect me. She was trying to believe in me enough for both of us, love me enough for both of us. It seemed like the profound depth of her love was spread out right there before me on the kitchen counter, and I was overwhelmed with the magnitude of its capacity. I told her that I was unsure of myself, and I was so very afraid of doing the wrong thing. She wrapped her arms around me and said nothing else, just letting me cry.
When I woke up the next morning, Mother’s Day, I peeked out my window to find my Mom in a familiar place; her garden. She was wearing her big hat and overalls, and she was pruning away at some shrub or another. I sat back against my pillows and smiled a little, resting my hands on my growing abdomen. I had no idea what the day would bring, but I was sure that I had enough love to get through it. More importantly, I knew that I likewise had enough love to give in return. I knew that I could feel that same love which had engulfed me the night before, growing inside me now. I peeked through the blinds one more time watching my Mother quietly cultivate the earth, just as she’d nurtured her children years before. It was spring…and the flowers were in full bloom.
