I am Elaine

I am Elaine. I’m married to Canadian Man, have eleven incredible people who call me “mom” and a passel of delightful grandchildren. I deeply love them all.

I confess, however, I probably forgot each of my dear kiddos at some point at church, at work, at Walmart. Like the time I had the clippers out one evening giving 3 boys the summer buzz cut. The phone shrilled on the wall. I reached to grab the bright orange receiver and squeezed it between shoulder and ear, clippers continuing their noisy trek, stick-straight dark clumps plopping to the yellow linoleum.  “Hello?” I uttered. “Mom, why aren’t you here?” Memory flooded through my being in a cold wave. I glanced at the accusing red numbers glowing on the stove clock: 9:05. Oh, for Pete’s sake, I needed to pick up the teenager at 9:00 o’clock from work! “I’m so sorry!! I’ll be right there. I just need to finish this haircut,” I promised.

I zipped through the rest of the cut, answering little boy questions like, ‘Why does Fido chase rabbits?’ and directing routine bedtime traffic. I brushed off hair clippings from the middle shaver’s shoulders. “Okay, you’re next!”  I yelled to the oldest son. I whipped the plastic shawl around the rough-and-tumble lad after he hopped up unto the stool. The clippers whined through sandy sun-scented hair. Brrrriiing! Brrrriiing! I snagged the phone again. “Mom!! Are you coming?” I paused the clippers and stood in dismay. “So, so sorry!! I started another haircut. Let me finish and I’ll be right there!” I shook my head exasperatedly at my forgetfulness.

 I turned the clippers back on and bent back to my task. Flapping the cape to rid it of the latest hair clusters, I fielded several ‘Mom! I need lunch money/paper signed/new shoes/huge project due and do we have any glue?’ requests. I called out to the littlest tiger, “Hop up, Buddy! Let’s get you done too!” Buddy wriggled and chattered as I clattered a swath through curly locks. The phone rang again. I stopped in my tracks because I knew. Oh, my goodness. I couldn’t believe I did that. I forgot to pick up my child from work, what, three times in the space of half an hour? My foggy baby-brain was the worst. What kind of a mother was I?

Do you ask yourself that question too? What kind of a mother am I? We are often faced with challenges as mothers that make us question our competence, our worth and our value.  I’m over 60, and I’ve been mothering for over 40 years. In the trenches of Where’s-the-Parenting-Manual grind, I experienced the gamut from baby spit to teenage angst. The I-Think-I-Can train carried me through debilitating fatigue, losing-my-mind and agonizing loss.  In the Conked-out Caboose I motored through adult children, blessed grands, trusting God and learning to value the imperfect life. I am the imperfect life. I’ve learned a thing or two from my failures. You will have your own failures, but I am here to tell you that, in spite of them, you are highly valued on this earth. And you are enough. You are the perfect mother to your children.

Pour a cup of coffee and look into the rearview mirror with me. I see nuggets of wisdom and a lifetime of love, tears and laughter waiting to be shared. 

To preserve some privacy (and dignity?) for my family, I’ve used a pseudonym instead of their real names. The choice is simply random, an aberration of my imagination. There is no ill intent in the choosing of any particular name, nor do I wish to make fun of anyone. They are chosen with fond feelings and tongue in cheek humor. To my family: I love you all, and hope you take my choice of name in the spirit it was given. 

The posts are not written to be factual. The stories may be exaggerated, and the facts fudged in the interest of entertainment.