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Our Mom & The Bouquet of Peace

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After you lose your mother, Mother’s Day becomes a somber day of reflection. Our mother is gone 21 years now. She died from lung cancer at the age of 56–a year younger than I am today. It was strange for me when I realized I’m older than my mother would ever be. Still, I reflexively reach for my phone to call her whenever something good or bad happens. Then, remind myself, with phone in hand, she’s not on the other end.

Her life was brief, but the life lessons she instilled in her three girls come back to us constantly. Sometimes, her lessons come slowly, subtly, and, other times, they slap us right in the face. I cannot express how much I love when that happens. Belonging to an Irish Catholic family, living in the Bronx, my mother was the eldest of six. Her life was filled with a steady stream of laundry–much of it done by hand. So, when she married, she insisted on squeezing a washer and a dryer into our already cramped kitchen. It would finally free her of the laborious chores of her childhood.

When I was 11, our parents separated. My mom, two sisters, and I would spend many years in our kitchen talking over the vibrational whir of the washer and the thunderous tumbling of the dryer. At dinnertime, she’d stop the machines mid-cycle so we could have some quiet conversation. Even after working twelve hours a day, six days a week, our mom always made time to sit at the kitchen table and ask about our day. The image of her reaching over to pull open the dryer door, without getting out of her chair, is forever etched in my memories. 

Right there, in our groovy 70s kitchen with its loud orange and yellow geometric, metallic wallpaper and knock-off Saarinen white-round table with matching bucket chairs, hung a print of Picasso’s Bouquet of Peace. Since I was, as my mom would say, ‘the artistic one,’ I had trouble with the drawing’s simplicity. I mean, I was 12 and could draw a more lifelike image of a bouquet of flowers. It perplexed me as much as it intrigued me. As a teen, I found myself researching Pablo Picasso and the phases of his work. His earlier work was spot-on realistic. So, clearly, he knew how to draw and paint, but the influences of the time, lead him to break free from realism and delve into cubism, and, eventually, he turned to painting in a childlike manner. I also learned he painted The Bouquet of Peace in response to the peace demonstrations taking place in Stockholm in 1958.

Our kitchen table was the roundtable of our world. Under the watchful eye of The Bouquet of Peace, it’s where our single bra-burning, bellbottom-wearing, liberal-leaning mother created a safe space for her three girls to talk about anything and everything. Nothing was off-limits. It’s where she celebrated our rite of passage into womanhood, and, subsequently, where we complained about our cramps and pimples. It’s where we learned to put on makeup. It’s where we cried over boys. It’s where we talked about our mother’s limited paycheck and how, if we wanted a new pair of Jordache jeans or a new pair of Candies, we had to work for it.

The response to a piece of artwork is typically an emotional one–even if it’s no response at all. Picasso’s flowers were always waiting to greet me in the morning. I’d stare at it while eating my Cheerios. My mother loved the cheerful nature of it and how it represented a sweet gesture of one person giving to another. She shared with me how the giving of something as simple as a bouquet of flowers could bring much joy to the recipient. In those moments, my mother was teaching us the art of the giving, the art of simple beauty, and the art of appreciating art. 

So, when I noticed my sister hung that very painting in her laundry room, it bothered me. Why would she choose to hang a significant piece from our childhood in such an obscure place? Then…BAM!!! It hit me. My sister got it right. It was the perfect place, right next to the whoosh of washer and the melodic tumbling of the dryer. Like I said, I love when that happens.

The Changing Nature of Motherhood

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This Mother’s Day will mark the last one that I am a full-time mom. My youngest will be leaving for college at the end of August, which means that after nearly three decades, I will be an empty nester.

I am no stranger to the changing nature of motherhood. When my three boys were little, it was all about physical caretaking; making sure they were fed and clean. I read to them and cuddled them and covered their faces with kisses millions of times as I lifted them out of their cribs, high chairs, car seats, strollers, etc. We had outings to the park and playground and we were together almost all of the time. It was me and them and we made a great team.

As they began to walk and then run, I became their protector. This was no easy feat because my sons often seemed hell bent on self-destruction and I often felt as if I spent my days saving them from themselves. There was the time my middle son, who was almost two, ate goose poop on a soccer field. Although he was fine, more than two decades later I am still scarred.

Between my older boys there were a slew of gashes that needed stitches and broken bones that needed setting. I was in charge of triage, trying to figure out how serious each injury was, a job for which my degree in English literature did not prepare me. At one point, the nurses in the orthopedist’s office knew my name and I was concerned they might call social services on me. Luckily, most of my sons’ injuries happened when they were not with me; most were sports related. I told the doctors that I should get a punch card where the cast for the tenth break was free.

My favorite role probably has been that of teacher. I am proud that I taught my sons how to read and was even more excited than they were when they sounded out their first words. I taught them their first notes on the piano (always starting with middle C), how to tie their sneakers, poetry, and a million other things I’m not sure they remember. But I do.

When my sons became teenagers, my role felt as it had morphed into being a warden and disciplinarian-in-chief. All of a sudden, instead of it being me and them it sometimes felt like me against them. This may have been the hardest stage of all because I didn’t enjoy enforcing rules—I suppose most people don’t. After all, who wants to be checking on homework and grades and meting out punishment for broken curfews and other infringements? Parents of teens will most certainly understand the grueling and often unrewarding nature of that stage.

Resident Uber driver, playmate, nurse, tutor, cheerleader; these are only a few of the other hats I wore over the many years I parented.

As my two older sons have gone off to college and graduated, gotten jobs and left the nest, I have found my role shifting once again. This phase is less hands on and more advisory; I am mostly called upon to listen to woes, lend moral support and occasionally offer an opinion. I’ve also entered a phase where, in addition to being my sons’ mom, I get to be their friend and can enjoy them in a way that I was not able to when they were younger. When we are together, we talk about their jobs, politics, life, whatever. And it’s really nice. When they were younger, and we were at odds, I honestly couldn’t envision the relationships we have now. For those of you still in the trenches, hang in there.

I won’t sugarcoat how hard it is to imagine all three of their bedrooms clean and empty and the house eerily quiet. After all, wasn’t it just a moment ago when they were little, making messes and noise? I am comforted by the thought that although my role has changed, two things remain constant; that I will always be needed in some capacity and how much I will always love my children.

This Mother’s Day, whether you’re peering at your baby’s first sonogram, opening homemade cards in bed with your little kids, joining your big kids for brunch, or even if you can’t physically be with your children, I hope you have a wonderful day. Because all of us who have nurtured, protected, disciplined and loved, have earned it.

I Wish I Would’ve Known…

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(L-R): The author and her family, Eric, Marlene, Jonah, her husband Mark and Isaac
PHOTO COURTESY OF MARLENE KERN FISCHER

A Letter to Younger Moms from an Older Mom

Now that I’m on that other side of parenting (meaning my three sons are mostly grown and I’m no longer in the trenches), I’ve had some time to reflect. When I say reflect, I mean think about things I think I got right and things about which I was off base. There are things I wish I had known–things I would tell my younger self about being a mother if I could. Here is some of what I would say…

Dear Younger Me,

First-

I am not going to tell you to enjoy every minute of parenthood because, if I offer that advice, I know you will find a way to reach across time, into the future, and smack me (and you would also think an impostor was writing to you). While one kid is vomiting and another is shrieking and the third is out of sight and up to mischief, it’s hard to think about how fleeting time is. I realize that from where you’re standing right now, time may as well be standing still. Just know that the time will pass and, despite their best efforts to break you, you will survive somewhat intact.

Give them your all but-

Save a little something for yourself. I threw myself into parenting because it’s the job I always wanted. However, I wish I had done just a tiny bit more for myself. Like writing–I know I barely had time to think, much less create cogent and insightful sentences but I wish I had held tighter onto the things that were important to me. I’m grateful to get a chance to do more now but I wish I hadn’t waited so long. So, younger me, please listen and nurture yourself, as well as those children. Carve out a little time for you.

Stop worrying so much-

I know you can’t help worrying. Unfortunately, that’s not going to change in the future. But I can tell you that all the worrying you are doing is a huge waste of time and effort. At least try and dial it down a notch if you can. Or start meditating a little so you can be a tiny bit more Zen.

You’re not screwing them up-

Good news; despite a few mistakes we made along the way, they all turn out fine. They are actually pretty hardy and resilient creatures. Even the high strung one. In fact, they are more than just fine–they are terrific. They aren’t necessarily any tidier but they are good people who care about each other, their friends and girlfriends… yes, I said girlfriends. They are now human enough to have significant others–really nice ones you’re going to like. You will finally have other females in the house. And, as a bonus, I want you to know the kids will be able to get jobs and support themselves.

It’s just a phase-

The baby who wakes up all the time? He does learn to sleep through the night. And that kid who only eats pasta? He will start eating chicken and veggies at some point. How about the one who keeps having tantrums and throws things when he loses? Yup, he will stop doing that. In fact, he’s so docile now it’s hard to believe he’s the same person. And how about the one who can’t manage his money? OK–we are still working on that one but I’m guessing he learns how to do it someday soon. My point is, although their personalities don’t completely change most of the behavioral stuff really is just a phase. Just ride it out like you would a wave and know that some new weird behavior will come along before you know it. And that even if it doesn’t, it eventually ceases to be your problem (at least to some degree).

You already know this but-

Despite the craziness and lack of money and time, work on keeping the marriage magic going. Try and go out a little more; the kids will be fine without you. I know you want to be with them but they really will grow up and have their own lives. You need to make sure you and the hubby still have things to say to each other after they are gone.

I don’t want to tell you everything that is going to happen–some of it is amazing and some, well…you will get through the bad things too. And at the end of the day you will even still have a sense of humor.

Most of all I want you to know two things:
You did a great job and I’m proud of you.
When it’s all said and done you will be so glad you did it all.

So hang in there. I will check in on you again and, if you need me, feel free to reach out and I will be there for you.

Love,
Older Me

Now I Meow: Learning to Silence the Tiger Roar Within

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Let’s play a short game of “Never Have I Ever.”

• Bought the “My Baby Can Read!” Program?

• Enrolled your two year old in Mandarin lessons?

• Prepped your four-year-old for a pre-school entrance exam?

It’s been ten years since I was pregnant with my son. Due to a severe and unannounced complication, Jesse became my only child. All of those proverbial eggs went into this one basket. My husband and I, ignoring our collective DNA, believed our seven-pound,12-ounce baby would one day be a boy of grit and determination.

Why on earth did we think a child born from our creative chromosomes would express an interest in perfect penmanship, homework done without a hint of procrastination, or a sincere desire to conform to school and suburban societal standards? Both of us were boundless daydreamers, not “good students.” Neither of us went to an Ivy League school. It took me 12 years to get a Bachelor’s Degree. Who was I as a parent to have such unrealistic expectations of an infant?

I decided to ignore genetics, and turned to nurture and instead of nature. From before that soft spot closed on his not-so-hairy head, I read to Jesse for hours: Sandra Boynton board books, The Old Man and the Sea. By the time he was two I’d bought a small chalkboard, where I would write out the alphabet every day, singing along with an actual pointing stick. Of course he knew the whole song by 26 months and four days but who’s counting?

Right before Jesse turned three in February of 2011, a bestselling book was released. You know the one. The Tiger Mom. Her Battle Hymn. With children practicing instruments on vacation. This tome was sweet validation for my maniacal child rearing practices. Immediately after reading the book, I began teaching him to sound out three letter words:

Bat, cat, hat, pat, sat. Bet, jet, let, met. Bit, fit, hit. Cot, dot. But, cut.

By the time Pre-K rolled around, he was more than ready for real kindergarten. Imagine my elation at my four-year-olds parent teacher conference upon hearing, “What a smart boy. Such language skills!” That sound you hear? My inner tiger roaring across the Okavango Delta.

September 2013 arrived, and sadly, Kindergarten started with a whimper. Jesse cried on the bus every. Single. Day. I thought to myself, “If he’s so sad, he can’t concentrate. But it’s ok, I’ve already taught him so much.” (In hindsight, I should have been thinking about his feelings, but I was a tiger, not a kitten.)

Fallen crimson leaves replaced fallen tears, and by Thanksgiving, I was most thankful that Jesse was doing better. Plus! The most wonderful time of the year was soon upon us: his very first report card. The day arrived and I tore open the envelope. A grade of “4” was the best. A “1” was the worst.

And there it was, in the right hand column, not under reading or writing or “rithmetic.”

There was a one.

I never realized there was an “emotional” side to a report card.

At his parent/teacher conference, Mrs. Crusher of Dreams tells my husband and I, “Jesse takes no pride in his work. He thinks he knows everything already.”

Of course my son felt this way and it was all my fault. It was time to accept a few truths. My parenting was much like my cooking: overdone. Children should learn things in their own time. And my son was no tiger cub. More like a sloth – cute as could be, moving at his own pace.

Every year since Pre-K I’ve made my son hold up a sign on the first day of school. You know the one. “Jesse’s first day of…” and the date. I always added the line, “When I grow up I want to be a…” First grade it was policeman. Second grade I winced as I wrote “garbage collector.” Last year my heart swelled when he wanted to run Apple. This year, fourth grade, I have done away with asking the question. Because I have finally learned – the only right answer is HAPPY.

A Mindful Mother’s Day Guide

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Jodi and her mom

By Jodi Baretz

Wikipedia states: “Mother’s Day is a celebration honoring motherhood, maternal bonds, and the influence of mothers in society.”

But day to day, we all know that Mom is a huge, complicated job, influenced by many factors. Mothers are the nurturers, caretakers, managers and glue of our families, and so much more.

Although our quest for perfectionism can feel justified in our community of overachievers, it would serve us well to accept that we are humans, not superheroes. We all make mistakes, endure tons of guilt, blame ourselves when our children hit a bump in the road; just like our mothers did before us. Relationships with our own mothers can be complicated as well. So, what if your Mother’s Day experience doesn’t fit on a Hallmark card? Here’s how I suggest you can give yourself the gift of a ‘mindful’ Mother’s Day.

Give yourself permission to not be perfect

Life is complicated for the modern mom. No matter what your children’s age, we all struggle with the same kinds of challenges. The mom’s in my mindfulness boot camp groups, as well as my clients, seem to express the same themes. Some common ones are: feeling like they are being pulled in so many different directions, struggling to get to-do lists done, not enjoying the moment… because their minds are usually thinking about the next one. In addition, they want to find meaning, purpose, and balance, all while trying to be the perfect mom. Ditch the perfectionistic mindset, you have a lot on your plate, and it will all get done eventually.

“Put the oxygen mask on yourself, before you put it on someone else.”

Filling up our own cup first is an essential ingredient to being a good mother. If we are run down, stressed, always trying to be perfect, we are not able to be the best mother we can be.

One thing at a time

Often we do not slow down enough to realize how chaotic our lives have become. We are so busy multi-tasking (which we think is something to be proud of), that we can sometimes stop doing anything well because we are constantly breaking our attention going from task to task. While I do realize multi-tasking is part of the job description, focusing on one task at a time makes us more effective, and decreases stress and anxiety.

Try a bit of self-compassion

In addition to self-care, self-compassion is something we, as mothers, neglect to practice. It is much easier and natural to beat ourselves up over everything from not cooking dinner to our child’s less than perfect behavior. Life happens. #%&! happens. Every mother goes through this. It’s part of the journey.

Try and tame the negative inner critic that berates you for your shortcomings. We all try to do the best we can, but despite our tireless efforts, we can’t guarantee to anyone ever that everything will run smoothly. We will always have moments when we freak out on our kids, and circumstances will arise that lead us to neglect certain tasks.

Our kids will struggle–and that’s ok because that is how they will learn and grow. So, when you hear that critical voice talking in your head, acknowledge that it’s there and then show yourself some compassion and stop paying attention to it. Instead, focus on all the good and positive things–the wonderful job you do as a loving, caring mom.

Cut your own mom some slack

Take a look at your relationship with your own mother, and show her some compassion as well. When you are little, your mom’s the center of the universe. The moment you realize she is simply human, and lacks the superpowers you thought she did, can be difficult to reconcile. You put her on a pedestal and it turns out she’s a flawed human being…just like you. There is something scary and humbling in realizing that. Accepting your mother for who she is, imperfections and all, will lead to a better relationship–you can’t change her anyway. Celebrate the good.

So if you struggle as a mother, or struggle with your mother, you are not alone. Parental relationships are complicated. D.W. Winnicott coined the notion of the “good enough mother,” which means that her failure to adapt to every need of the child helps them adapt to external realities. So, let’s honor all aspects of the journey and embrace imperfection as the Hallmark of motherhood. Happy Mother’s Day!

Jodi Baretz, LCSW, CHHC, is a psychotherapist, mindfulness and holistic health coach at The Center for Health and Healing in Mount Kisco.  She is the founder of the program and author of  Mindfulness is the New Skinny, and a speaker on mindfulness. She lives in Millwood with her husband and two teenage boys, Visit jodibaretz.com and join her this summer for meditation by the lake.