Daughterhood and Cute Messy Babies

Note: the woman in the photo is not my Mom, though she’s every bit as beautiful.

Don’t take this the wrong way. My mother is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I remember her in the 70s, getting ready to go out, the babysitter already here, spritzing on the last touch of her hippy perfume. The orange jumpsuit with the gold-link belt. The floppy hat.

Or, pregnant with my sisters in Bermuda shorts and a pony tail, slicing watermelon out on the patio, smiling at my Dad. I would run and hug them both around the legs and they’d look down. Laugh and pick me up for a giggly family hug.

In later years her librarian’s bun with the pencil stuck through it. Or practicing her tai chi on that same patio. Who cares if the neighbors looked on, a friendly wave of their Budweiser as they grilled their dinner on a warm July night.

So don’t take it the wrong way when I say I feel like the fiercely proud mother of a baby with a cleft lip or cerebral palsy when I take my mom to the mall in her wheelchair. It kills me when people look away as we pass, somehow embarrassed for her.

She is still the most beautiful thing in my life, even with her disheveled appearance, the sad result of her worsening dementia. I guess the mall people wouldn't know she has a morbid fear of bathing. They aren't there when she refuses violently to wear anything other than her her favorite t-shirt (that happens to have a little stain on the front.)

As we walk through the mall, I notice the cute babies that everyone oogles and awwws, riding fine in their tiny wheelchairs. Chocolatey mouths and sticky stuff matted in their hair. The sweet chubby toddlers, red twisted faces howling two-year-old swears cuz Mommy said no to a cake pop.

Dirty, twisted and howling, yet they are somehow adorable. You see the ladies looking on, thinking oh yes, I remember those days, the best days of my life. The kids were so precious and my husband still loved me.

But seeing us go by, they look the other way. They didn’t know my mom when she took belly dancing lessons with the other daring mom on our block. Or sewed the flies shut on my dad’s boxers. It was a joke and rebellion against mending shirts and darning socks. She hated sewing and was mad he wouldn't just buy some new ones.

Cool and funny and pretty, cookies after school. My gorgeous Mom.

***

The other day I read a piece on a website called daughterhood.org (Check it out, to those of you I know who are taking care of their folks, too.)

“While new mothers are showered with love and often share a path well-lit by friends and neighbors, the road is often dark and hard to navigate when it comes time to mother their own mothers, or any relative for that matter.”

This really surprised me: Some opinions about those caring for a parent weren’t even neutral. I’m reading about daughters being criticized for doing a such meaningless task, caring for a parent, as if it were beneath us, lacking dignity they say.

Call me undignified all you want. I do not care. Just please leave my perfect mom out of it.

Babies are so cute we can't help but squeal. I get it. They make us feel hope and joy. We look past their poopy pants and messy chocolate faces.

My mom’s a little wrinkled but geez, she’s already made her lifetime of contributions. All those babies have done so far is eat and sleep. She deserves something for her efforts, doesn’t she? She doesn't even need a cake pop. She only wants to wear her favorite shirt. Or maybe she deserves a pleasant smile from passers by.

Epilogue:

As we walked through the mall that day, three separate kids — each around 5 years old — ran over, looked up at my Mom. They each broke into a shy little smile and ventured, “Hi Lady.”

One even dared to reach out and gently pat her hand. A sweet little angel face. Thank goodness no one’s explained to him about "dignity" yet. Because he caused my Mom to come alive. She focus her eyes on him and smiled, "Hi little boy." He didn't recoil when she used her misshapen arthritic hand to pat his back.