From my column this week

The first time anyone called me “Mama,” I was in Russia. My children, with their thick accents, were trying to get my attention, but I didn’t even recognize the word as being connected to me. It was all too new. The translator laid her hand on my arm and gently whispered “They are calling you.” Mama. Oh, yes: I am Mama. I wanted to look around for an instruction manual, but there wasn’t time.

I considered telling them the truth: I was an imposter. I did not know the first thing about being a mother. I was still in shock that the judge had not figured this out. Instead, she had smiled, nodded and signed the adoption decrees. If I had faked her out, maybe I could fake the kids out. “Fake it ’til you make it” became my motto.

Nine years and nine kids later, I answer to anything. I find myself mumbling “What, honey?” to any child calling out within a three-aisle range in the grocery store. Odds are, the kid is mine; I’m just covering my bases.

Right now, my youngest is just starting to say a few words. He calls me “Mama,” and I beam. If he follows in the steps of his siblings, he’ll have other names for me soon enough. His brother Max, soon to be 3, calls me Rose whenever he wants to make sure he gets my attention. It works so well when Daddy does it, it must be a good idea.

My oldest son wrote the other day from boot camp. “Hey, Mom,” the letter began. I’ve been HeyMom since he entered the teen years. I once tried not to answer anyone who called me HeyMom, but it didn’t work. I kept forgetting not to answer.

My son’s letter informed me that he had to do pushups for every letter received. I smiled and wrote back right away. Three times.

It is bittersweet to get a letter from a grown-up child. I find myself asking where the time went. How could I possibly have adult children? They must belong to that aging woman I see in the mirror each morning.

Years ago, a family friend called me to complain that her grandson had just turned 50. “How could he be 50? That is so old,” she told me. I may not be as far along as she is, but I understand her point in my own way. They keep growing up.

I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for so long. “Breathe, breathe,” they told me when I was in labor. I thought it was advice for just that moment. Turns out, I keep needing to remember to exhale. I hold my breath as I watch a son take a first step. I hold my breath as a daughter crosses the street alone. I hold my breath as a teen learns to drive. Breathe. Breathe.

A good friend watched her son go through a series of surgeries, the first one when he was a few days old. It is an anxiety I do not know. Another friend lost a baby when he was only a few months old. It is a pain I have never felt. Still, we are mothers, we share a common name, a common bond. We are moms.

Of all the things I’ve ever been called — and I best not list all of them here — I am the proudest when I hear my favorite of them all: Mom.

This entry was posted on Thursday, May 15th, 2008 at 5:25 am and is filed under Home Schooling, Large Families, Parenting, children, homeschool. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.