What Makes a Mother?

My mother became one, with the birth of a son [Burnath Maurice] before her 20th birthday. Two years later, a second son [Elvour Whitney] was born, followed in four years by another [Marion Whitney]. About her next birth Mother wrote, "We feared it was twins [though] we wanted nine boys," but to every one's surprise, the baby was a girl [MerLyn]! Before another brother [Keith Sheryl] arrived eighteen months later, the family survived a terrible car accident that changed Mother's life forever. She wrote of having suffered a miscarriage the winter of '31/'32 and of being ill for the next six months before being diagnosed with asthma. 

Mother may have thought that her sixth child, a boy born in '35 [Sylvan Lowell], would be her last but at age 45, she became MY mother. Despite her age and having felt ill for some time, she thought she might be pregnant. Her doctor said she was just going through "the change of life". Mother quoted Daddy as saying, "She's had six kids. If she says she's pregnant, she must be!" They were told, "It is doubtful that we can save both mother and baby,"  but Mother lived and gave birth to a healthy [and adorable] baby girl [Christie]. (I added the "adorable" part). 

A Disney song lyric, asks, "What makes mothers all that they are?" In her writings, Mother mentioned some of the trials she faced raising seven children, expressed her grief and sorrow for opportunities she felt they missed because of her ill health and the costly search for treatment with the hope of relief but she attributed her personal survival and that of her family to faith--in prayer, in the power of the Priesthood, and in diligent temple service.

When I think of my mother, I think of the healthy, robust, tom-boyish girl she must have been in her youth, and her strength as a young woman, joining with my father at such a young age [18], in making a home for what would become a large family, housed--before my birth-- in just two rooms, on a small acreage, less than 60 acres.

Mother was very handy with a needle. She taught me to crochet before I was a teen--no small task since she, right-handed like me by nature, crocheted left-handed. [Mother had her right hand badly burned in her youth but learned to use her left hand during a year of healing]. She taught me to do simple embroidery though I was a poor and somewhat unwilling student when it came to darning and mending. I was the kid under the quilt stretched taunt on a frame, pulling a threaded needle through at the underside of the material, then sending it back through to the top.

Thinking of what makes mothers, mine always sang at night until I fell asleep. She hummed or whistled while she did her chores. She always had a little ditty to sing to drive home the message of a teaching moment or just to be silly. She sat through endless hours, without complaint, of my practice times--piano, flute, organ or singing. I think I first learned to sing and hold different parts--soprano, alto, tenor--by listening to Mother and Daddy. She most often sang alto; My father sang tenor. Mother taught me, as she did all her children, to memorize verses--what she called "Readings"--and to stand before an audience to recite them. I was put on stage, also, to plunk out simple one-note tunes on a little, red toy piano. I credit my mother with having blessed me with a near absence of stage fright, given these simple opportunities to perform or speak in front of others. Oh, I'd get the kind of nervous that helps bring out your best performance, but I never experienced the debilitating kind of stage fright until I was nearly 60!

I don't remember either of my parents being disciplinarians. I was, after all, a perfect child! That's what I've told my kids and grand-kids. Well..., there was that time I dropped the grain sack, spilling most of the contents, as a mouse ran up one of my pant legs and down the other, that I have previously mentioned. My daddy put on his angry eyes on that occasion. As a teen, I sassed Mother. She slapped me right across the mouth. That could be what converted me to introvertism, keeping my thoughts to myself and my words well away from the tip of my tongue, lest they slip out and be heard. 

If I close my eyes, I can see my mother standing at the ironing board, so carefully pressing her temple clothes or her pioneer costume. Both were important to her, the organization of families through temple service and keeping family history alive whether by standing in costume on a parade float or writing histories and recording genealogy research, by hand with pen and ink. "Always use black ink for records," she'd tell me. She supported and helped organize family reunions and by my aunt's account, always had an open door for family and friends.

Mother was frugal to a fault but generous to those she thought were in need. She didn't eat unless everyone could eat. Home wasn't home to her without tons of house plants, crocheted doilies, and her kitchen table was forever set with a bottle of pickles and a jar of jam...for every meal. She was a simple cook of hearty meat-and-potatoes kind of meals--a little bit of this and a little bit of that. She expected a blessing on the food at every meal, one of those done kneeling at chairs around the table, following daily family prayer.

What makes mothers? I'm nearing 70--the new "50", I'm told--with time to consider and ponder my own motherhood experience. I've been blessed to have also been tutored by a sister and five sisters-in-law. Still, I've had painful moments of self-doubt about my role. A wise friend once counseled me, saying something to the effect that a mother can't take credit for what a child has achieved by their own doing. Neither should a mother take credit for their less-than-successful shortcomings. It's been difficult for me to find the healthy and proper balance, often feeling unwarranted guilt and worry. "Have I done too little? Have I done too much?" I know you know what I mean. Being a mother gives a woman an opportunity for personal growth. Your kids can show you who you really are and what you're made of. Raising a family [or two] is not for the faint of heart. Like old age and ill health, Motherhood isn't for sissies. There are more downs than ups but one special moment of "up" can carry a tired mother through days--even longer--of tough times and hard work. As a mother, I'm still a work in progress. It's a part of who I am.