[Repost of 2002 Mother's Day story. -- Ed.]


reflections on mother's day


I saw an angel the other day. Really.

I was standing at the sink drying dishes, and from the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of movement. So beautiful! Tumbling from the heavens, its robes a streak of white, its long, graceful limbs unfurling, golden hair flying, it landed in my backyard.

It really did take me a full second to realize that it was my daughter, turning a cartwheel.

I saw a ghost the other day too. A friendly one, one I really have missed.

My father, fresh from Navy boot camp, before all the horro of war had hurt him so, was turning the corner of our street, walking along with a pretty girl on his arm. His jaunty walk, his tall, handsome self, that crooked Tyrone Power grin -- I was so happy to see --

--that it was my son, walking home from school in his Junior Navy ROTC dress blues.

Motherhood is not alway fun. It is no ticket to glory, fame, wealth or even necessarily recognition. Sometimes I wonder how God decided to hand the job of raising these two beautiful people to me, little me -- surely the least patient, most selfish, most grossly inexperienced person for the job. I was so certain I'd be terrible at it, in fact, that on neither occasion did I seek the position -- I was pulled from the ranks and conscripted. Both of my kids were total surprises. But I can only conclude that God knew what he was doing, because I have learned more from my children than they will ever learn from me, and they certainly belong in the world.

Ah, and the things I have seen. Visions that, had I never been a mother, would never have presented themselves.

Was it worth it? Yes. Would I do it again? Don't make me answer that. I have already learned that God is the only good judge of what's best for me.

But, oh, the joy that has been in the journey. I can only look down the road ahead with happy anticipation and the hope that, maybe someday, many years from now, one of my grandchildren will see their grandmother in a girl jumping rope in "hot pepper time" on a chalked up sidewalk. They may not know it, but I'll be there.

the mighty hunters


Our silly cats bring me "bounty" all the time. They are quite good at
dumping the goods live in the living room just so I can eat fresh. We have
chased sparrows, mice, lizards and a variety of charming things throughout
the house.

But they will not touch a spider. You could have a spider the size of a
hamster, shimmying and cha-cha'ing through the living room, jingly anklets on
each hairy leg, stopping every so often to snap its pincers and shout
"Cha-cha-CHA!", then making a loud Bronx cheer through its nasty little
aperture, and these cats would sit there in a concerned little semicircle
and stare at it gravely, not moving.

"Dude! Did you see that?"

"Yeah, man; I saw that."

"Shit, man; what'll we do?"

"Dude! I dunno. Looks pretty grim."

"Yeah, I know. You wanna take a poke at it?"

"F*** no, man -- you wanna try?"

"I ain't touchin' it, man -- my cousin Lenny ate one of those bad boys and
he fell out for like, three days. That is some powerful shit they got in
those things."

"Man, look at her freakin' out. Dude, you think she'll still remember to
feed us the canned food? I kinda could go for some Tuna 'n' Egg...."

Meanwhile I will be screaming, shrieking, verging on hysterics. My husband
will come charging in, expecting Ali Baba and at least twenty-seven or so
of the thieves. When he sees the source of my angst, he disgustedly gets a
dustpan or cardboard and ushers the repulsive thing on board, where it sits,
leering and mockingly winking its eight bright little eyes at me.

"In Germany," he will helpfully inform me, "it is bad luck to kill a
spider."

"In Germany," I will say, "they also change their underwear once a week.
This is America, pal."

He will shrug, smile, and open the door, where he tosses the gruesome thing
outside with a little shake of the dustpan. "Go on, little fellow; nobody
will hurt you!" he says cheerfully.

I give him my own version of a Bronx cheer, resolving to spill perfume on
the folded stack of hockey jerseys in the basement on the counter. Totally
accidentally, you understand.

From beneath the open window, a faint jingle of tiny anklets is heard....