Janice Crow

Reflections - May 08

I’M AN IMPOSTER. It’s true. It’s not something I want to admit. It’s not something I’m proud of. But it’s true. For nearly 30 years now I have been calling myself a mother…and it’s just not so…. at least not in the traditional sense.

My mother is one of the last generation of fortunate wives…those who could tend to the business of their home and family. She knew where her children were, and the five of us took comfort in knowing where she was … at home.

Mom did not take her role lightly. She taught us from the scriptures every single day, and I can still remember her praying, calling our names one by one and asking God to protect us, guide us, and make us the people he would have us be.

Our home was the center of everything. We ate at home….always. Mom’s red and white checked tablecloth covered the chipped paint on our old kitchen table and I remember thinking how beautiful it was. I can still hear the screen door snap as I came in from school to find mom in the kitchen making a batch of “cherry dumplins” or canning those big, beautiful tomatoes. She’d wipe her hands on her apron, give me a hug and ask how I did in school that day. Then she’d hum her way through “fixin’ supper”…sometimes “The Old Rugged Cross”, sometimes “Victory in Jesus”.

She’d visit over the picket fence with Mrs. Hampsey or Mrs. Shanks who were also home with their children and then excuse herself to check on the pot of beans simmering on the stove.

Sometimes I’d come home to find her hanging clothes out on the line or “sprinkling down” the ironing on the kitchen table with an old soda bottle outfitted with a sprinkler nozzle, and I couldn’t wait to grow up to do those same things.

My mother was and still is, even at 94, a beautiful lady and she always dressed like one. Mom had a pair of 1940’s navy blue platform shoes that had tall chunky heels and a peek toe and a “lunch box” type purse to match. I loved it when she wore them to church along with her veiled hat and her belted peplum suit. Right then and there I knew what I wanted out of life….I wanted to be my mother. I wanted to wear those hats and gloves and those tailored suits she wore and I wanted to do with my life what she had done. I wanted to watch my kids grow up and be there for them. I wanted her life. But that’s not what I got.

By the time I became an adult, the world had changed. Time had marched on and those things I grew up wanting no longer existed. The Ozzie and Harriett/ June Cleaver world …my mother’s world… that I so desperately needed for myself had disappeared. Gloves and hats had been replaced with tie-dyed T-shirts and ragged jeans. Women suddenly knew more about fixing typewriters than turkeys. They were pumping gas instead of potting plants. The life I dreamed of was just that…a distant dream. I was disoriented and I felt cheated and bitter.

I married alright, but the economy saw to it that I couldn’t stay home. I had children that I loved, but could spend very little time with because of my work schedule. Finally, divorce put an unceremonious end to a bad marriage and there I was again…searching.

Now a divorced mom, I had no hope of being able to stay home. My mother, bless her heart, took care of the kids while I worked and each day they told me of their day’s adventures, their school field trip that I missed or the outing taken with grandma and grandpa that I couldn’t attend. She helped them with their homework, gave them their baths, read them Bible stories and tucked them into bed as I went back to work.

For years I sat through Mother’s Day service after Mother’s Day service feeling ill at ease, knowing full well that I was not the kind of mother that would be honored that day. Year after year the pastor would present a beautiful bouquet to the oldest mother, the youngest mother, the mother with the most children, the mother with the most children present in church that day, the mother of an adopted child, the mother with foster children in her care, etc. etc., until finally the biggie…Mother of the Year.

I was never sure exactly what criteria entered into the decision making process of choosing the various recipients, but there was one thing they nearly always had in common…they were married, fulltime, stay-at-home, non-career moms. Their husbands supported them and they were free to care for their children, keep up with the house work, the laundry, and have meals on the table at 5:00. These were the kind of ladies who could be available during the day to help make peanut brittle for the church fundraiser, be volunteers for Vacation Bible School or shop with the pastor’s wife.

It was painful. Not that the ladies chosen were undeserving. To the contrary, they were some of the finest ladies I’ve ever known, my own mother among them. There was just so much guilt associated with being the kind of mother I was forced to be and so much regret that I had not made better choices. I finally decided I didn’t have to put myself through that anymore, so I quit going to church on Mother’s Day.

Enough years have gone by now that I’ve come to grips with the fact that I probably did the only thing I could do. I wasn’t raised to get on the welfare rolls, so working was the only viable option. I’m married to a wonderful Christian man now who often tells me what a good job I did with my kids. Even my children who are approaching thirty tell me “You did good.” Still….my heart aches for the things I missed. And sometimes when flipping through old photographs I so much miss that little boy with the Buster Brown haircut and the golden-haired girl with the funny little gap between her front teeth.

I’m positive that I’m not the only mom in this world who’s felt less of a mother because she worked her kids’ childhood away and I sincerely hope that one of Heaven’s joys will be the opportunity to recapture some of the time lost. The Lord does say He will restore the years that the locust has eaten.

Before I close, I would just like to take this opportunity to give a verbal “bouquet” to all those mothers out there who may never be recognized for their efforts or whose circumstances have forced them into difficult financial decisions. A dozen red roses to the mother who stands goggled and gloved day after day on the assembly line… to the mother whose head throbs and whose nerves are raw from a grueling day in a stressful office…to the mother whose hands crack and bleed from scrubbing hospital floors…to the mother whose arms feel like lead and whose shoulders ache from hours of perms and comb-outs…to the mother who’s disappointed with herself and her life…to the mother who’s done the very best she can do and no one seems to notice….Happy Mother’s Day. You ARE a real mom, and come to think of it, maybe I am too.

Janice Crow