A
while ago, I was asked to write a piece about motherhood for a local event. The
first person I thought of, of course, was my own mother. She was a bit of an
odd duck, a tomboy living in a Leave-it-to-Beaver world. But of course, that’s
not what I was supposed to talk about tonight. Then I thought about my favorite
fictional moms—everyone from Sharon Gless on Burn Notice, to Brak’s mom from
the Adult Swim cartoons. My husband and I are both—well, intellectual would be
the nice word, but what comes out is “nerds.”
Our nearly 30+ years together have often left both of us wondering if
there’s actually a sadistic sit-com writer sitting behind the scenes of our day-to-day
life. But no, not TV moms. This is supposed to be about me, and my own
experience as a mother. That took a while to sink in. After all, I’ve only been
a mother for 25 years. What kind of expertise do I have? It’s not like I’m a
real grown up or anything.
Oh.
Wait. Not only am I a grown up, but so are my sons, at 24 & 25. I even have
an adorable (of course) granddaughter. I guess that counts. So here we go.
Going
back to the TV references, I don’t live a shiny Brady Bunch life. I really
don’t think anyone does, and if they did, I’d probably be scared of them. Real
life is a lot messier, sillier, harder, and more joyful than that—sometimes all
at once. Parenthood, especially, has been a series of moments and emotions that
are often so outrageous, my publishers would probably make me cut some of my
own memories because they were “unrealistic.” Like my younger son looking up at
my mother and saying, “Tristan no eat bugs.” Because he’d clearly just hidden
the one he was about to pop in his mouth.
Starting
at the beginning, when you first find out you’re going to be a parent, you’re bombarded
with frantic emotions. Whether you’re pregnant or adopting, I’m told, the
roller coaster is there, just the same. There’s hope, joy, awe, excitement,
anticipation, love—because, yes, you already love that child even before you
see him or her—and also there’s a hefty dose of unremitting terror.
What
if something goes wrong? What if I screw up? It’s that terror that stalks you
and robs you of sleep. And it doesn’t go away. Ever. Along with the love, joy
and pride our kids bring us, the terror is still there, even as they move on to
families of their own. Because that’s what parenthood is all about. Being a mom
means you will love that child and worry about that child every single day for
the rest of your life. Oh—and trust me. You will screw up. It’s part of human
nature. In my house full of men, there aren’t a lot of language filters.
Basically, our motto is “Suck it up and cope.” Crass, but it honestly has
gotten us through a lot of rough times.
So
do nerd parents raise nerd children? Sometimes. Neither of my children are readers
on anywhere near the scale of myself or my husband, but they’re both avid video
gamers and Live-action-role-players. That means they dress up in armor and
smash at other young adults with pool noodle and duct-tape swords. Honestly, it sounds like fun, but I’m pretty
sure I’d break something if I tried it, so I leave it to them. Would I have
been happier if either of them had developed a more academic bent? Sure. But
they’re both taking community college courses at their own pace, both working,
and one is learning to be a single parent—while fighting tooth and nail for his
daughter’s well-being. So while they’re not living MY dreams for them—I still
have to say I’m proud.
How
did I get such great kids? I’m honestly not sure. One thing I do know is that
whenever we could, we sat down to dinner as a family. Our table is a big, old oak monstrosity that
my husband and I bought in a yard sale in our grad-school days. The finish was
so bad, we never cared if it was damaged further, so it’s been home to crafts,
games, homework, and dinners for decades.
We had kids when our friends didn’t, so the
gaming was usually at our house. Our kids grew up being passed from lap to lap
while we played everything from Trivial Pursuit to Dungeons and Dragons. They
also grew up at a table where everyone was welcome. There was always room for a
friend to drop in, and somehow the food always stretched, even when we were
broke.
Around
our table, there were no taboos. Any subject could be discussed. And usually
was. With lots of laughter. Sarcasm sort of runs in the family. If the boys
didn’t know a word that came up, we’d chorus “look it up.” First one to find it
in the dictionary didn’t have to do dishes.
As
the kids grew up, that often included their friends. It shocked me to realize
that many of them had never experienced this kind of, “It’s dinnertime, let’s
all sit down and eat,” scenario. Don’t families do that anymore? I’d hear
comments from the friends, like, “Your parents are weird.” Well, yeah, we know
that. But I’d also see kids laughing so hard they could barely eat. And kids
who were shocked that their comments were taken just as seriously (or not) as
anyone else’s. I also heard someone say to my son, “So that’s how you know so
much, even though you sleep through school.” And my son agreed. Politics,
science, pop culture, history, everything was fair game around the dinner
table. Over the years, I’ve been thanked by a number of those friends for
giving them that experience. Just something as simple as sitting down to
dinner.
Now
our kids are grown, and the table is literally on its last legs. The glue
joints are shot and the top needs at least another coat of marine varnish to
keep it going. We had the offer from a relative to give us a nearly identical
table, but one that’s in pristine condition. “Perfect!” I said.
“No,”
said my sons.
“No,”
said their friends. Really? My kids’ friends care about our table? Ooookay.
“No,”
said a number of our friends. That really raised eyebrows.
“Not
the table,” explained my husband’s best friend from childhood, who met his wife
over a game board at our house. “You can’t get rid of that.” Apparently, it’s a
symbol—of something.
I
honestly don’t know if we can salvage the table. It’s really wobbly. But I
suppose we have to try. If not, its memory will live on as the main set of the
sitcom that has been our family. It’s where we paid bills, worried about major
and minor decisions, discussed baby names, sorted through paperwork after my
mother’s death and spent time with our friends. It’s where I wrote most of my
stories and novels. But more than any other single location, it’s where we
raised our kids. If it does go, I have to admit, a little bit of my heart will
go with it.
*****
Cindy Spencer Pape firmly believes in happily-ever-after.
Multiple award-winning author of the best-selling Gaslight Chronicles, she has
released almost sixty novels and stories, which blend fantasy, adventure,
science fiction, suspense, history and romance. Cindy lives in southeast Michigan with her husband and a bunch of spoiled dogs.
When not hard at work writing she can be found restoring her 1870 house,
dressing up for steampunk parties and Renaissance fairs, or with her nose
buried in a book.
Website: http://www.cindyspencerpape.com
Newsletter group: http://yhoo.it/ni7PHo
Twitter: http://twitter.com/CindySPape
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