On Being a Mom/Mother/Mama/Nana/Grandma/Grandmother-The List Goes On

Billy and me in front of Old College, Aberystwyth

Recently the daughter of a friend blogged about being tired as a mother, sometimes filled with self-doubt, aggravation, and running from hugs one minute to time out the next with her small brood of four, not so small when one considers that for most of the waking day it's a four-to-one ratio.  She went on to add that it was a burden to young struggling moms to have older women return their complaints of exhaustion or frustration with the cherry and oft-spoken, "You'll miss this time when it'is gone."  Though well meaning, and I've said it myself, I could suddenly and totally see her point.  When one is battling for sanity in a sea that threatens to drown, one needs a life preserver and a word of encouragement not a reminder that it is an opportunity for a character building experience. It set me to thinking about my own child-rearing days.  I wrote her a response.

The good news is that all the tough, hard, or they vomited in their bed, you cleaned up, then they vomited in your bed episodes, the times-out, the I-would-pay-cash-money-for-8-hours-of-straight-undisturbed-sleep, and the feelings of helplessness, incompetence, and exasperation become somehow quite funny when retold over holiday tables. Trust me, it becomes hilarious; but at the time it is happening, it is just 'hard work.' Stay the course and know that the Grandma's of the world survived and so will you.

The not so great news is that you'll never stop being a mother, even after they're launched. You become cheerleader, sometimes confidant, therapist, and sometimes "mom-on-a-shelf," who is taken down when needed. But this confusing time is beautiful too. Just when you know how to be a mama, you have to learn how to be a mom/mother to adults that you can't scoop up and put in time out. The frustrations and feelings of inadequacy are equal but different and sometimes you want to scream into a pillow or put your head in an oven (not really, well kinda sorta), but you love over and above, in between, and forever. 

It's this love that is the constant through the confusing stages of life. So hang in there, lovely girl. Take naps with the kids when you can. Be kind to yourself because you are a brilliant mom and just exactly made to order for your little brood. Laugh out loud. Dance. Allow yourself to be human. Motherhood will drive you to your knees, to tears, and to the heights of testimony. It's all part of of an amazing journey. 

Blessings on you from a survivor!

Which then brought me to my time in Wales, away from hugs and kisses and relegated to Skype, email, Facebook, and the occasional letter.  There's nothing quite like a handwritten letter, but I digress...

Our oldest son, Billy. found himself in London recently and generously planned an extra day to visit his mom.  That's me smiling in the top photo.  "I've got a car," he emailed.  "Looks to be about 2 hours from London as the crow flies.  How far is it?"

Well, for one we have rooks in Wales.  They are noisy but had little if anything to do with road design.  The north/south roads were made by the Romans when they invaded Briton years ago.  They have multi-lanes and are fast.  Unfortunately the east/west roads were made by the early Druids, who were either following cattle or sheep, or were so deep in their own thoughts that they went round in the most imaginative curvilinear paths that it is nearly a seven hour drive from London to Aberystwyth, longer if you stop for a picture or a break.

After some checking, I found that there is a "fast" train from London to Birmingham that takes only an hour and another that travels from Birmingham to Aberystwyth that takes only three... so that's four hours each way.  (I didn't know that Euston Station was an hour away from his London based hotel. 

Billy's a good sport, a very good sport.  At 18 months old he gathered toys for the other children in nursery and passed them out.  He grew to be a great big brother... we talk a lot about his big-brotherhood over holiday tables... I now understand much better what all the upstairs noise was after I so lovingly and tenderly put them all to bed and collapsed in a wilted heap on the living room sofa near my husband.  In my case there was an 8:1 ratio for the bulk of our daylight hours.

But back to my post, these are not photoshopped pictures.  They are real.  Billy came to Aberystwyth in spite of the inconvenience and added travel time to his already busy schedule. We shared castle ruins, college campus, St. Michael's cathedral, Old College, a double ice-cream to celebrate his birthday that had just passed and the occasional sit-down to just talk.  We walked the Prom and viewed the Irish Sea from the end of the Royal Pier.  We ate at Wetherspoon's where he ate Dragon sagsage, visited the Ceredigion Museum, and, of course, stopped at the Sweetie's shop to send home British treats for the grands.

I guess what I'm saying is that there are joys and challenges that are part of each stage of motherhood.  Would I trade the downs if it meant I'd miss the ups?  Never.  How would I come to recognize the sweetness?   Would I trade the plethora of reasons that created sleepless nights?  No, because they brought me to my knees and taught me faith.  Families come in all shapes and sizes, each with an assortment of personalities, challenges, and enough"growing experiences" to fit all comers.  I love my family with all its good and not so good.  Why?  Because they are mine.

Thank you, son.  Your visit was just the best.

                                               

February 2013 - Home to Home - Part 2

Stirling Castle, Scotland

I would like to know what happened to January.  It was always my mom's favorite month she once said, explaining that she got to write my name every day.  But this past January just vanished into the mist.

After enjoying December with family and friends, cuddles with grands, making and sending handmade ornaments and Christmas greetings across the United States and beyond, lunches with friends, and just being with my husband, it was bitter-sweet to return to my second home in Wales.  I was prepared for the journey but was not prepared for the ravages of jet-lag nor did I understand what jet-lag was beyond sleep deprivation.  Okay, so as a researcher I set out to discover what it really is.

It's different for each person but the overall response is 24 hours adjustment for every time zone travelled, a bit more if you're over fifty but who's counting! The UK is 8 time zones different than Oregon.  The adjustments to our circadian rhythms can result in inability to sleep as well as depression, anxiety, eating and elimination issues.  Makes sense when one considers all that is involved, as the body doesn't necessarily follow where the brain leads.  Case in point, I look at the gymnasts in the Olympics and say I can do that; and then I look in the mirror and realize that it's probably not going to happen soon.  So for those of you planning a trip from West to East (takes a longer adjustment) or East to West (takes less time to adjust for most), here are some tips.  Set your watch to the destination time zone when you get on the plane.  Bring Melatonin with you (natural sleep aid). When it's night, do NOT stare at the computer screen to go back to sleep.  It will actually do the reverse and tell your body it's morning and wake you up.  Drink plenty of fluids.  Exercise through the day and try to avoid late afternoon naps for a few weeks.  Above all, stay busily engaged in seeing and enjoying your trip or your home.  Understand that there is nothing wrong with you, your body is just trying to catch up to your adventurous travel plans.

After adjusting to the 8 hour time change and delivering my

scheduled presentation, I began to enjoy life again and journeyed with friends to Scotland where we stayed in Sterling and visited Edinborough.

   

Stirling Castle is being beautifully  renovated and the colors used were truly remarkable.  Opulent is the only word that quite covers the interior royal chambers.  One wishes to lie upon the floor and just observe the ceilings.

As I wandered through the castle and stared out across the fields toward the William Wallace monument, the gradual realization of where I was and what I was doing began to dawn... again! I was in Scotland... in a real castle... I was going to school... I was having an adventure... I was seeing a childhood dream fulfilled.  Looking out from the castle parapet at the lush green fields or glancing skyward at the architecture and gargoyles and even playing dress-up with medieval costumes, I paused to be grateful for the experience I was sharing with friends and how my life and understanding of humanity is broadening.  It felt more like I was visiting the home of a friend, walking on their cobbled courtyard, admiring their taste in decor.  There was a definite connection that time and space did not account for.  Perhaps it is the writer in me, the fact that I live within an imaginary world a good part of my day, but just as reading takes us on a journey through time or into the mind and heart of another person, this new adventure removed barriers as I lived "in" history and became a part of it.

January saw the completion of my doctoral in-class classes and the freedom to work intensely on my research and novel, which has passed 22K words.  I'm not sure what adventures February will offer but I do promise to keep you posted.  Until then learn to laugh while you live and don't forget to dance.

January 2013 - Home to Home - Part I

Clock Tower near Birmingham, England

 An epic journey home to the West Coast of America marked the beginning of my holiday hiatus.  Thinking to be quite clever, I spent a bit more on tickets, choosing to fly to Amsterdam and then take a direct 13 hour flight to Portland.  Alas, arriving at Birmingham hours early to accommodate international travel, I was greeted with the news that it was snowing in Amsterdam.  Lovely, I innocently thought.  Not only will I see the country of my forefather's origins but it will be very Christmassy!  This is, however, when I learned that planes do not fly in the snow if they can help it and that one of the things that the Brits do best is "queue."

Used to American efficiency and a certain amount of impatience in being thwarted by one's travel plans (did I say that nicely?), no one else in line seemed to be at all surprised when we had to wait for someone from KLM to show up to reroute us... all 200 plus of us.  I fortunately was in the beginning of the line (early arrival has its perks). The someone from KLM showed up and was just that... one...  someone.  There were actually two but one was shunted off to the side to handle elite ticket holders, class will out!

 I met the loveliest people in line: a young blond, blue-eyed student going home to Finland and three British South Africans journeying to visit family.  The nearly three hours in queue passed pleasantly.  I was rerouted to Dublin, a four hour layover, then Boston, and finally home.  Flight time was up 50%.  So much for expensive tickets.  But at least I was going home or so I thought.

Flight into the morning

Arriving in Boston, I was told to take the shuttle to the ticket counter.  Being inexperienced, I did.  "I'm sorry, madam, but your gate is closed."  "Yes," I replied hopefully.  "Call them and tell them I'm here and have them hold it please."  "That is not possible.  The gate is closed."  "My luggage is on that flight.  I've been in these clothes for 24 hours.  I have no American money with me. Can I speak with your supervisor?" My American impatience was beginning to crack. Failing to impact Boston, I began to cry (didn't work!).  "I don't even have a toothbrush," I exclaimed.  Boston mumbled something about not scheduling adequate time between international and domestic flights, arranged to put me in a hotel overnight, gave me a toothbrush and a small packet of sundries, and a $6 meal voucher for dinner and another for breakfast.  I walked to the hotel, dropped what little I had in my room and went downstairs to eat.  $6 voucher + Boston prices = a very nice dinner salad and since they didn't take pounds Sterling, I now have $1.42 on my American Express card.  The next day I was rerouted to Atlanta, Georgia, before being sent homeward.  Fourty-six hours all totaled!

And the hours traveling faded like dew on a sunny morning when my little three-year-old grandson rounded the corner of the kitchen and saw his Nana sitting on the kitchen floor playing with his cousin.  He looked like a young fawn startled in a thicket.  I raised my arms.  He ran and buried himself in my lap.  The journey... what journey?  That moment filled my heart, healed my aching body, and brought me fully home.

Please join me next week for Part II of "Home to Home" or "What I Did On My Christmas Vacation."  See you then.

Week Two - Journey in Fairyland

October 1, 2012

Just east of Aberystwyth/University of Wales, a steam train stops at a reasonably level station - Wales consists of hills that go on forever.  It was only, however, a short walk to Devil's Bridge and Mynach Falls.

 There you will find three bridges.  The first was built by the monks of Strata Florida in Medieval times.  In the early 1700's the second bridge was built and in the Twentieth Century the third, a wider bridge for cars, was completed as the topmost bridge.  One can easily drive or walk across the narrow ravine oblivious to the hidden jewels that lie beneath the triple span.  Corroding iron turnstiles on either side of the road mark the way down.  Don't let the antiquity of the gates fool you.  It's still ₤2 to enter.

There is, of course, the name and the myth, which I will recount in my own words...  

In ancient time an old woman lost her cow on the far side of the river and was bemoaning her loss and how she could reclaim her property when a man appeared and offered a most miraculous proposition.  He would build a sturdy bridge over the torrent during the coming night but she would have to agree that the first living thing to cross would be his.  Wishing her cow back in her possession, the old woman agreed, turned, and journeyed to her home.  As the night wore on, she reconsidered the bargain she had struck; however, her need to reclaim her cow overcame her concerns as to how the man might accomplish all he offered.  The next morning, she rose, wrapped a loaf of bread in her skirt, and accompanied by her dog followed her way back to the river to find a fully completed stone bridge with her cow standing just on the other side.  It was truly amazing.  The woman, however, had not become old by being foolish.  She approached the bridge, unwrapped the loaf and threw it across the expanse.  Her dog joyfully ran to the other side of the bridge to gather his treat and disappeared.  The Devil, for such was the man, stormed and stamped his feet for the dog was the first living thing to cross the bridge and he had lost the woman's soul in spite of his cunning hard work.  It is said that the old woman and all who came after have used the bridge undisturbed, as the Devil, shamed at being outwitted by an old woman, was never seen in these parts again.

Built by medieval monks or the Devil, himself, to peer over the rail of the topmost bridge, the view is daunting.  There are two trails - a long and a short - both treacherous to say the least and one must choose based on how adventurous they feel.  The short trail, pictured here, takes only 10-15 minutes and, wanting to take my time and explore, I chose this one and was greatly rewarded by nearly unbroken solitude and a chance to stop, sit, listen, and write - pages of pent up emotions that softened the bands that bound grief and fear within my heart.  I wandered the trail, sat repeatedly to write, inhaled the green of Wales, the magic, the wonder, the eternal nature of the water as it swirled in the punchbowl and forced its path through the narrow divided cliff faces.  A newly turned autumn leaf floated down and with a soft but audible scritch landed on my open journal.  "Hello, mom," I murmured.  I could feel her joy that I was here in this place; and bittersweet, I knew that part of her joy was the renewed companionship of my father, who recently joined her on the other side of eternity.

Healing was not the only jewel I added to my collection of memories and wonders during my hour on the slate stairs.  The sound of fairies was in the rush of the torrent, the rustle and bite of the Welsh wind in the tree tops, and the sight that met my eyes around a bend in the path forced me to stop.  This was truly an enchanted place.

I had just framed a scene in my iPhone when I very nearly dropped it.  Peeking over the top, I questioned the play of light, a trick to my eyes.  Could I be seeing what I thought I saw?  Buried beneath the varied flora, I saw... what?  You tell me - a sleeping dragon, nose almost touching the iron rail that guarded the path to the falls.  I walked back and forth, peered into the depthless eyes, and finally in wonder touched the outstretched snout in blessing.   

     

Imagination is a powerful thing.  I had come on the student trip wishing only to see some of Wales, to overcome my fear of travelling alone, and disappointment that my husband could not yet join me as planned.  Instead, I found childlike wonder as I stood between worlds - the beauty of our Father's creation and His gift of imagination.  Until next time, I will continue to follow my path where it leads.

Week One - Journey to Hogwarts

Hello Family, Friends, Readers, et al:  

I'm here finally in Aberystwyth, Wales.  If there had been a teleportation button upon arrival, I am ashamed to say I would willingly have hit it and returned to the United States. Culture shock not to mention that the ₤1=$1.60 ratio I’d been expecting was actually ₤1=nearly $2.  Alas, I didn’t have a pair of ruby slippers. 

Travel was a bit nerve wracking to say the least.  I arrived in Chicago from Portland with an hour and a half layover.  Unfortunately the plane circled the runway seeking a spot to park for thirty minutes.  Arriving inside, I was told it was 40+ minutes to Terminal 5.  I was in Terminal 1.  A wild ride (my husband had prearranged wheelchair assistance if I felt I needed it) included multiple elevator rides and mad dashes past startled people.  However, with a call ahead to keep the plane, we found Aer Lingus waiting for my arrival.

Next stop Dublin.  The Immigration Officer, tucked carefully in his glass booth, didn't ask any questions when I proffered my Passport/Visa; and after a cursory glance, slid it back through the small window opening - unstamped.  I slid it back in and requested it be stamped so I could prove legal entrance into the country.  The guide, his accent lovely, spoke over my shoulder, “Yes, sir.  She definitely wants it stamped.”  It was and I was official.  I realized I wasn’t in Kansas or anywhere in the US anymore.  I’d stepped back in time to a place riddled with religious unrest but for whom 9-11 was foreign.

Cardiff, Wales, was my next port-of-call.  Cardiff International is not... 

let's leave it at that.  If you've been to Astoria Airport and if it actually had two floors, it would qualify as Cardiff International.  It is not in Cardiff proper.  You take a bus at breakneck speeds to a quiet neighborhood and then have to decide which way to go to get to Cardiff proper.  I had struck up a conversation with a passenger and was following her to a small platform on the left when the bus driver got off and said I was going the wrong way.  Then 3 pedestrians chimed in, including one gentleman in a plaid shirt who just happened to be sitting on some concrete nearby.  They confirmed that I was indeed going the wrong way.  I just need to get to Aberystwyth, I explained.  I decided to trust the masses, hauled my oversized pink suitcases across the street and down to the platform on the right.

An older couple and a fresh graduate of Aberystwyth told me I was indeed in the right spot.  I took a train to what I presume was the Cardiff station and felt that if I’d had more faith and been less tired, I could have walked through the wall and entered Hogwarts.  The conductor, taking pity on her poor demented American passenger, helped me to another location instructing two assistants to help me onto yet another train to Shrewsbury, which according to the map is far north of Aberystwyth.  Just as the sun burns off sea fog, so, too, did thirty seconds magic away my future assistants.  They rounded the corner never to be seen again.  Maybe they went though the wall?  A train pulled in and the woman sitting next to me informed me that this was my ride.  A bit wild eyed, I again shouldered my backpack and raced toward the open door first stopping and asking an official looking man in a suit and tie if indeed this was the proper transport to Aberystwyth.  It was.  I climbed aboard, stowed my luggage and collapsed in the first available seat.  I was now at seventeen hours and counting in my travels.

“Ticket, please.”  I reached into my pocket and handed my pricey little white and orange card.

“This isn’t a ticket.  It’s a schedule.” 

“But it’s what the conductor gave me at the last station.”  At this point, I was near brain dead and frantically searched what little memory I had of the ₤19 I had spent.  Suddenly remembering that the first conductor had asked, “Would it be cheeky to ask if you are 55?” and had gone on to explain that there was a special discount for a free return trip, I searched my wallet and found what actually turned out to be my ticket.  I rather liked that first conductor and her question.  Perhaps I didn’t look as bad as I felt. 

Situation solved, I settled back to enjoy the countryside.  It felt like home again.  With the exception of smaller houses and architectural differences, I could be passing through Oregon coastal countryside.  Then a steeple appeared on the horizon followed by a medieval church.  I felt myself slide through time.  A castle casually perched on a hillside clinched the unreality and further disordered my travel weary brain.  I was, indeed, time travelling.  I mean, no signs.  It was just part of the local landscape, just as a Walmart or Rite Aid in the US.  No one even glanced up or pointed.

“Shrewsbury Station next stop.”

I stepped down from the carriage and to my dismay saw the train I was to board at the end of a rather lengthy platform.  Welsh trains run on suggested schedules rather than regimented ones.  I ran when I heard the conductor blast two calls on his whistle, dragging my suitcases, trying to reach the first two cars to get to Aber (as they call it here.)  The luggage would not cooperate as the gap between train and platform was too wide.  No amount of pulling could get it inside the car.  Hopefully the conductor could see a large pink suitcase looking very like a tongue giving raspberries protruding from the side of his train.  Surely he wouldn’t leave, I thought. But did he see me?  Finally a prayer and a final yank got my oversized luggage as far as the compartment between cars. I was quite surprised to find that my heart was still beating.

I, quite thankfully, found myself in the second car while the luggage remained in the hall.  I sat and found that the carriage was full of Aber students.  I’d been warned in an email to get into the first two compartments as the train divides at the stop before Aber and continues on while the other half goes heaven knows where else.  I had an enjoyable conversation with Melissa, who was a second year student and studying biology.  At every stop, I got up to check that my luggage didn’t grow legs and toddle off the train.

Arriving in the tiny coastal Aber station, Melissa kindly agreed to take photographic evidence that I had made it. 

A sign down the platform caught my eye – “Welcome International Students.”  This won’t be so bad, I thought.  Obviously they thought I was joking about being a student, maybe it was the pink suitcases or my age or, perhaps, they were waiting for someone else as they merely pointed to a taxi que and left me to my own devices.

Stepping out of the station, I was struck by how quaint and Dickensonian the town was, which impression was quickly overcome by how I would I be able to find 1 Lon Hendre.  Cabs stood in a que on the wrong side of the street.  The cheap "OW" cabs are ₤3 anywhere. The next cab in the que wasn't.  We set off with me pointing to the directions on my printed email and arrived at the Accommodations office and were told that everything had moved to the Porter’s.  Back down the hill, I waited at the Porter’s only to have the woman from Accommodations arrive behind me and hand the porter my flat key.  Getting back into the cab, we drove up the hill to Lon Hendre finding that #1 Lon Hendre had an enormous 2 on the front of the building.  The next building was #1; the curtain was open and young men and multiple beer bottles were in evidence. 

At this point, I was ready to get back in the cab and return home only I didn’t want to face an additional 24 hours travelling, I had no tickets, the money was running low due to the exchange rate, and some last vestige of grit just didn’t want to quit.  It appeared that #1 Lon Hendre didn’t exist as far as the keys I’d be issued were concerned; and when all seemed lost, we discovered #2 Lon Hendre IS #1 Lon Hendre (one being my flat number) and in spite of being family housing, it is actually an eight-plex!  The key unfortunately worked (no mistake had been made – this was my flat). I paid the very confused cab driver ₤7, telling him to keep the change (only to find later that the Brits don't normally tip).  His smile was enormous.

I entered the frigid space and immediately broke into tears at the size (minuscule), scorching hot water with separate taps so a combination of pleasingly warm is just not an option to the user, and peeling paint.  However, I'd had angels surround me throughout the trip to that point - kind people appearing just when I needed them, willing to answer my questions and assist me on and off trains, etc.  The Lord didn't fail me now.  

My next-door neighbor came out and offered to help me settle.  I would have thought that one look at me and she would have closed her door and double bolted it.  Tao is from the Caribbean and has a one-year-old boy, Kai, with Downs Syndrome.  When I found that the promised WiFi didn't exist and I couldn't call my family, I very nearly lost it.  Again… and permanently!  I really wanted ruby slippers at this point… just click them three times.  Oh, Dorothy, we are so not in Kansas anymore.

Again angels. Tao invited me in to use her computer.  I downloaded some money into my Skype account and held back my tears, trying to sound as cheerful as I could when my husband answered.  I had arrived.  His voice never sounded sweeter to my ear.

I returned to my apartment/flat/miniscule living space – remember, I was very tired as twenty-four hours had elapsed without sleep, minor food and mostly nut bars to eat.  Opening the door to the bedroom, I inhaled sharply.  Some dear person had made up the bed with a duvet, pillows, and two towels but no other household goods had arrived. Between the adrenaline rush of my on-again/off-again, surreal travel experiences, I was exhausted but couldn’t sleep.  I unpacked and felt a bit better with some family pics up to see and keep me company, then slept till 3 AM, ate pistachios, played Soduko, and went back to sleep - not waking blessedly until 1 PM on Thursday.

The next days became a blur of Tao escorting me to get my Aber card, Internet set up (the promised WiFi did not exist), making an appointment at Barclay’s to set up a bank account (yes, you need an appointment!), and gathering some groceries from a local shop.  I was invited to dinner at a lovely little stone cottage in the countryside.  Never has real food tasted so good and to be surrounded by a family only added to the reassurance that I would be okay. Happenstance?  Coincidence?  Miracle?  Half of a miracle is recognizing it when it hits you in the face.

Checking with Accommodations, my "Premier Package" of household goods has not yet arrived.  I was told they did not make up the bed with the lovely duvet so it must have been a kindly but ever anonymous angel on the last cleaning team who provided the bedding and made up a place for me to sleep.  Bless you, whoever you are… and thank you to all those who loaned or gave crockery, flatware, and cooking supplies.  I even have a glass to drink out of as I wait for my still missing packet.  It’s amazing how the simplest things bring the greatest pleasure.

The campus is all uphill, odd but unfortunately true, and I shall be quite fit in a month.  No matter where you stand, it is uphill – reminds me of the moving stairwells at Hogwarts. So life is better and I'm calming.  Soon I’ll be registered and will report on my first week of school.  How can it be that I only started this odyssey 6 days ago?

Thank you all for your prayers and good thoughts.  I didn't think I could do this and I couldn't have done so but the Lord has supported me by strewing angels in my path and I am so grateful, very homesick but grateful.  God bless you.

me, mom, Aunt Jan, Nana, Gramma, student, writer, and now, world-traveller…

Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat… how about a burning car?

(Excerpt from The Deplorable Child by Jan Nerenberg)

Mothers, usually, are not deplorable. They are all things to their children: Chief-cook and bottle-washer, doctor, lawyer, counselor, nurse, taxi driver, cheerleader, dryer of tears, mender of tears, etc.  The list goes on… forever.  In fact, she almost walks on water, just ask any florist on the second Sunday in May.

However, and in spite of the above facts, including innumerable school plays and endless Little League games, track meets, and basketball games, I’m a slacker.  I’ve missed performances and milestones in the lives of my multitudinous progeny.  I admit it.

There was the time our oldest asked for a ride to his high school.  I complied and upon arrival, commented on the packed parking lot.  “It’s nothing, mom.  Just a simple concert.  No big deal,” he said as he exited the car.  Upon arrival home, he had a plaque tucked under his arm.  “How’d it go?”  “Just fine,” he replied as he put his award for 2^nd Chair in the Violin Section on the coffee table.  See!  Deplorable.  Out of touch.  In fact, I had no idea it was the culmination event of his year!

Then there was the black full-length gown I crafted for our youngest daughter.  “Do you want to be a chaperone?” she asked after the concert I DID attend at the local high school.  Hmmm, on a bus with half a gazillion teenagers on a two-hour bus trip each way to hear the same concert?  I declined the honor.  Wrong move.  As I graduated years later from Pacific University, I discovered that my daughter’s high school group had not only qualified for the state playoffs but they had performed on Pac U’s stage all those years ago.  Oblivious to the obvious.

Slow, but I do learn.  I’ve turned over a new leaf.  I try to attend as many historic events in the lives of my children as possible but the fates aren’t always with me.  Case in point, our youngest son’s doctoral graduation.

We are in the winding up stages of reclaiming our home from a 3000-gallon internal flood, getting ready to install lights, preparing an apartment for said son and family, and answering to half a dozen sub-contractors daily.  I set my alarm for just past 7 AM, showered, checked in with the work crew, helped my husband find his missing hearing aid and left for Corvallis at 9:30.  Only a half hour late but I had scheduled an extra hour to account for emergencies.  I always do this, as there is always something!

All was well as we left Astoria.  The car shuddered as we climbed Clatskanie hill.  I prayed.  The motor smoothed out.  I breathed.  We continued.  In Woodland, Washington, the shudder was back.  I was afraid that if we stopped we would never start again, but my husband, bless his decision, pulled into a gas station.  I exited the car as smoke spiraled into the air when he lifted the hood.  The smoke was quickly followed by erupting flames.  I don’t know what possessed me but I grabbed my purse and phone from the now burning car.  Truly deplorable behavior.

A helpful attendant extinguished the flames and wanted to file an incident report until his boss showed up and suggested that we move the car as far away from his station as possible, pointing out that car fires and gas pumps do not make good neighbors.  He directed us to a car repair/dealership, three blocks down the road.  That’s when we met Julie (see epilogue).

By now I was near hysterics.  Could I rent a taxi to drive the remaining 100 miles?  How about helicopter, Lear jet, police escort?  Once more I had failed. 

I tearfully called our daughter-in-law and explained our predicament.  She said they understood, she was glad we were okay, said the kids were already cranky, and don’t stress.  Our son parked he was driving and called, saying repeatedly that it was okay and not my fault.  I kept thinking I should have somehow known how to prevent this.  He downplayed the importance of the ceremony – it’s only a piece of paper, no big deal.

By now I was gulping for air.  Yes, I am a bit of a drama queen.  (Gad, I can’t believe I just admitted that in print.)  Nevertheless, he told us to return home; they would videotape the entire proceedings.  We could celebrate together on Sunday, his birthday.  My crying slowed a bit.

“Mom,” his voice cut through my clouded thoughts.  “I know you are proud of me.  You tell me all the time.  You are a good mother and it’s okay.”

I sniffed.  An errant thought ran through my head. “Well, at least I was there and on time for your birth.”

Silence.  And then… laughter. 

“Dang good thing,” he chuckled.

Yes, laughter in the face of adversity is good.  I might be a deplorable mom for many reasons but at least I was front and center to birth each of our eight children.

Epilogue:  Julie of Woodland’s Lewis River Motor Company gave us a loaner car and although we arrived halfway through the Oregon State ceremony, we were able to watch our son, Nathan, walk across the stage and receive his PharmD diploma.  God places good people in the world.

 

Congratulations, Dr. Nerenberg