I'm More than a Mother
and other things....
A few months ago, when I was picking up the
children at school, another Mother whom I knew
well rushed up to me. Emily was fuming with
indignation.
"Do you know what you and I are?" she demanded.
Before I could answer and I didn't really have
one handy -- she blurted out the reason for her
question. It seemed she had just returned from
renewing her driver's license at the County
Clerk's office. Asked by the woman recorder to
state her "occupation," Emily had hesitated,
uncertain how to classify herself.
"What I mean is," explained the recorder, "do you
have a job, or are you just a ......?"
"Of course I have a job," snapped Emily. "I'm a
mother."
"We don't list 'mother' as an
occupation...'housewife' covers it," said the
recorder emphatically.
I forgot all about her story until one day I
found myself in the same situation, this time at
our own Town Hall. The Clerk was obviously a
career woman, poised, efficient, and possessed of
a high-sounding title, like "Official
Interrogator" or "Town Registrar.
"And what is your occupation?" she probed.
What made me say it, I do not know. The words
simply popped out.
"I'm a Research Associate in the field of Child
Development and Human Relations."
The clerk paused, ball-point pen frozen in
midair, and looked up as though she had not heard
right. I repeated the title slowly, emphasizing
the most significant words. Then I stared with
wonder as my pompous pronouncement was written in
bold, black ink on the official questionnaire.
"Might I ask," said the clerk with new interest,
"just what you do in your field?"
Coolly, without any trace of fluster in my voice,
I heard myself reply, "I have a continuing
program of research (what mother doesn't) in the
laboratory and in the field (normally I would
have said indoors and out).
I'm working for my Masters (the whole darned
family) and already have four credits (all
daughters). Of course, the job is one of the
most demanding in the humanities (any mother care
to disagree?)and I often work 14 hours a day (24
is more like it). But the job is more
challenging than most run-of-the-mill careers and
the rewards are in satisfaction rather than just
money."
There was an increasing note of respect in the
clerk's voice as she completed the form, stood
up, and personally ushered me to the door.
As I drove into our driveway buoyed up by my
glamorous new career, I was greeted by my lab
assistants--age 13, 7, and 3. And upstairs, I
could hear our new experimental model (six
months) in the child-development program, testing
out a new vocal pattern.
I felt triumphant. I had scored a beat on
bureaucracy. And I had gone down on the official
records as someone more distinguished and
indispensable to mankind than "just another......"
"Can I see my baby?" the happy new
mother asked. When the bundle was nestled
in her arms and she moved the fold of cloth to look upon his tiny
face, she gasped.
The doctor turned quickly and looked out the tall hospital
window.
The baby had been born without ears. Time proved that the baby's
hearing was
perfect. It was only his appearance that was marred.
When he rushed home from school one day and flung himself into
his mother's
arms, she sighed, knowing that his life was to be a succession of
heartbreaks.
He blurted out the tragedy. "A boy, a big boy . . . called
me a freak."
He grew up, handsome for his misfortune. A favorite with his
fellow
students, he might have been class president, but for that.
He developed a gift, a talent for literature and music.
"But you might mingle with other young people," his
mother reproved him, but
felt a kindness in her heart.
The boy's father had a session with the family physician.
Could nothing be done?
"I believe I could graft on a pair of outer ears, if they
could be procured"
the doctor decided. Whereupon the search began for a person who
would make
such a sacrifice for a young man. Two years went by.
Then, "You are going to the hospital, son. Mother and
I have someone who
will donate the ears you need. But it's a secret" said the
father.
The operation was a brilliant success, and a new person emerged.
His talents blossomed into genius, and school and college became
a series of triumphs.
Later he married and entered the diplomatic service. "But I
must know!" He
urged his father. "Who gave so much for me? I could never do
enough for him."
"I do not believe you could," said the father,
"but the agreement was that
you are not to know -- not yet."
The years kept their profound secret, but the day did come, one
of the
darkest days that ever pass through a son. He stood with
his father over
his mother's casket. Slowly, tenderly, the father stretched forth
a hand and
raised the thick, reddish-brown hair to reveal that the mother
had no outer ears.
"Mother said she was glad she never let her hair be
cut," he whispered
gently, "and nobody ever thought mother less beautiful, did
they?"
Real beauty lies not in the physical appearance, but in the
heart.
Real treasure lies not in what that can be seen, but what that
cannot be seen.
Real love lies not in what is done and known, but in what that is
done but
not known.
The most powerful force in the universe is not
any kind of nuclear energy.
It is not magnetism, gravity or the IRS. The most powerful force
in the
universe is hormones. If you don't believe me, conduct the
following simple
scientific experiment:
1. Take a normal woman.
2. Get her pregnant.
3. See if she can walk past a display of baby shoes without
stopping.
I've been conducting this experiment for several months now with
my wife,
Michelle. She's pregnant, and I have reason to believe that I'm
the father.
I'm excited about this, because I'm at an age -- 52 -- when many
of my
friends are thinking about retiring to dull, meaningless lives of
travel,
leisure, recreation and culture. Not me! I'm about to start all
over again
with a brand-new little Miracle of Life to love, nurture and --
above all --
become intimately familiar with the poops of.
But so far the big change in my life has been Michelle's
behavior. She has
never been a particularly maternal person; she's a professional
sportswriter
who has always been one of the guys. She understands the triangle
offense
and can watch football longer than I can. I've seen her fight her
way
through frenzied locker-room media mobs to get quotes from giant,
sweaty
football players. I've seen her stand on the field of 3Com Park
in San
Francisco right before a baseball playoff game, arguing in
Spanish and not
backing down one millimeter from a professional baseball player
who was (1)
VERY angry about something she had written and (2) holding a
baseball bat.
Like many career women, Michelle insisted that becoming a mother
would not
change her. She was going to be the same professional person,
darn it! She
was NOT going to turn into one of those women who babble
obsessively about
the baby and baby clothes and all the other baby fixin's. Above
all, she was
NEVER going to drive a minivan.
Right.
I would estimate that, at the present time, my wife's blood
supply is 92
percent baby-related hormones. Doctors often call hormones
"the Saddam
Husseins of the human body" because they are moody, and when
they give
commands, they expect instant obedience. So for now my wife is
not my wife:
She is the official spokesperson for crazed dictator hormones.
When the
hormones wake up, they do NOT want an affectionate "good
morning" kiss. They
want AN UNCOOKED POP-TART, and they want it RIGHT NOW. You do not
question
them, because they will throw up on you.
The hormones also want baby shoes. I don't know why. I have seen
the baby,
at the doctor's office, via a procedure called a
"sonogram," and although,
of course, I think it is a very beautiful and gifted child, it
looks, more
than anything, like a wad of gum. I frankly cannot imagine, given
its
current lifestyle in the womb, that footwear is a high priority.
But you try telling this to the hormones. They are CRAZY for baby
shoes. My
wife could be fleeing from an armed robber, but if she ran past a
display of
baby shoes, her hormones would demand that she stop, pick up a
shoe and
exclaim to whomever is nearby, even the robber, "Look how
CUTE!" The smaller
the shoe, the cuter the hormones think it is. If somebody came
out with a
baby shoe the size of a molecule, which could be viewed only
through a very
powerful microscope, my wife's hormones would make her buy 27
pairs.
The hormones also want baby outfits. Even though the baby is
still deep
inside my wife and would be very hard to dress without surgical
instruments, it already has at least as many outfits as Elizabeth
Taylor. If
you come to our house for any reason, including to fix an
appliance, the
hormones will make my wife show you these outfits one at a time,
and as each
one is held up, you will be expected to agree that it is cute.
Lately, the hormones have become obsessed with the decor of the
baby's
room. They definitely wanted a Winnie the Pooh theme, but they
spent weeks
agonizing over whether to go with the Regular Pooh or the Classic
Pooh
theme. They finally decided on Classic Pooh, but, of course, now
they must
decide which of the estimated 14 million Classic Pooh baby-room
accessories
they will need. This is an important issue, and the hormones
think about it
all the time, even during football games. Any day now, Michelle
is going to
walk up to a defensive tackle in the Miami Dolphins locker room
and ask him
what he thinks about the Pooh ceiling border. This is not her
fault. She is
merely the vehicle: The hormones are driving.
Speaking of which, they want a minivan