Mother

I hate being called 'Mother.'

Sometimes Roy has made the comment to one of our kids in one of those stern voices, "Listen to your mother." And I will say, with my nose scrunched while shaking my head, "Don't call me mother."

Darian has realized over the years that it's my least favorite term for myself so she inevitably says, when she comes in a room, "Hello, Mother!" in her most cheerful voice.

Darian is not a communicator. I'm always saying, "You need to communicate! You'll discover that life rolls much easier!" So recently she was having a conflict with someone there in Bolivia and was finally able to communicate her feelings. She emailed me about it and said that she feels so much lighter, that things are going so well now, and then she ended the story by saying, "You were right, Mother!"

And, as I always do, I cringed.

And here is why.

When I was a little girl, I had a Grandma Great. That's what we called her. She was, of course, my grandma's mom, and, in my eyes, she was ancient. In retrospect, Grandma Great was quite a lady--very classy and elegant. But I didn't realize that at the time.

Grandma Great had 9 children: 7 girls and 2 boys. One boy was born, I believe, with spina bifida and passed when he was just 2 or 3 years old; the other boy, her baby, had Downs' Syndrome and passed in his early 20's. But the girls were all healthy and when I was growing up, they would all come home to visit once a year (at least) and gather at Grandma Great's house in Thomas, Oklahoma. So, of course, we would always go hang out with them when they were in town and it always proved a raucous time filled with so much laughter and chatting it up and fun. I loved it when they all came to town. Aunt Lena was always my favorite aunt when I was a little girl because we had the same birthday and so she took a special interest in me. She bought me a gift on every one of my birthdays until I was 18 years old and I looked forward to receiving that gift like none other. It was always perfect. But honestly, all of my great aunts were fabulous. They were cheerful and personable and helped create in my life a strong sense of what family is about.

I remember one time when we went to visit they were all gathered in the kitchen and a large pot was on the stove, the water boiling rapidly. "What's in there?" I asked, and someone lifted the lid to reveal a long cow's tongue cooking in the bubbling broth. Repulsed, I stepped back. "You're going to eat that cow's tongue?" But they did! I remember watching, fascinated, as my aunts split it amongst each of them and dined on what they each considered a delicacy.

I considered it gross.

Ew.

Grandma Great had a cellar out behind her house. It was on a slight hill so that the cellar door was slanted and built into the earth, creating a hill of its own that was, in the mind of a young child, quite a piece of fun. I remember spending all kinds of time out there on that cellar door, running up and down and up and down and, most likely, creating my own world in my head.

Grandma Great had a bookshelf filled with books right by her chair. One day, when I was about 8 years old and we were visiting, I picked up a book that Grandma Great had there on the table by her chair and started to read it, just for something to do. After a minute or two, Grandma Great came along and saw me reading her book. She quickly snatched it out of my hand. "You don't need to read that," she said, placing it on one of the bookshelves that was out of my reach. But she didn't take it before I noted that it was titled The Thorn Birds. Grandma Great was never harsh, never impatient, and so her quick words startled me, and that title was emblazoned in my head. When I was in high school and meandering the public library one day in search of a book as I was an avid reader, I remembered that experience and checked out a copy of The Thorn Birds. And then? Well, then I knew why Grandma Great snatched it out of my hand.

During regular life when my great aunts weren't in town, Grandma Great would occasionally be visiting Grandma when we would go the farm on the weekends. I can remember her sitting in Grandma's chair, her feet kicked up, and Grandma putting warm wool socks on her so that she wouldn't get cold.

As the years went by, Grandma Great eventually moved into the nursing home there in Thomas. We stopped to visit her occasionally and she always so pleasant, so happy to see us, so kind. She never appeared disgruntled that life placed her in a nursing facility. She was, from all appearances, a happy sort of person. Content.

One time when I was talking to Aunt Lena about what life was like for her as she was growing up in the midst of all of those girls, she told me what an amazing mom Grandma Great had been. She said, "We told her everything. I thought all moms were like that--that every girl went home from a date with a boy to their mom waiting at the door, anxious to hear every detail, because that's how my mom was. It wasn't until I was an adult that I realized how unusual that is."

But here is the thing. Everyone called Grandma Great...

Mother.

Everyone.

She was a great lady, a great mom, a patient, kind lady. But I was a child and she was...well, she seemed old to me. And her name was Mother.

So when my kids call me Mother? I see walking with a walker, wool socks on my cold feet.

I see old.

Don't call me Mother.