M is for...

Mother's Day 1988--with 2 1/2 Seyfried kids

M is for Music recitals. It wasn't enduring my own personal children sawing away at "Long Long Ago" that rankled. It was the company of the video moms and dads, planted right in front of me as they recorded the ENTIRE concert for who knows what audience of the future. Break out the popcorn! We're gathering around the old TV to watch little Jason massacre "Ragtime Fiddles"!

O is for Operations. Hernias, ear tubes, eye surgeries...I hated to surrender my little pajama-clad patient to the surgeon and wait, reading the same article in Parents' Magazine over and over until he/she was in recovery. I remember small Rosie, pre-op, under the influence of anaesthesia, slurring her words as she announced, "I don' feel any different! I don' know WHEN thish gonna work!"

T is for Tag-a-longs. Girl Scout cookie drives, wrapping paper sales for school, hawking hoagies and candy for mission trips: I was always my kids' best customer, as I vastly preferred opening my wallet to asking others to open theirs. How disheartening to realize you've depleted your meager college savings to purchase items that a) pile on the pounds or b) you'd never in a million years buy on your own. Ah, the hidden costs of motherhood!

H is for Helicopter parents. These are the folks who dial their darlings hourly, demanding detailed accounts of every date and exam. I call them, but irregularly, preferring that my adult children live their lives and share what they want, when they want. The helicopter parents know chapter and verse. I can't keep significant others straight ("How's Brian? Mom, I don't even remember who Brian IS!") and am pleasantly surprised when the kids arrive home ("Junior year is over, Mom.") I may be clueless at times, but at least I don't hover.

E is for Eggo (waffles, that is, with Aunt Jemima pseudo-syrup). My pasta machine and bread dough hook gathered dust for eons while I was in the Mom trenches (five children under age ten). At the end of a marathon day of child chasing, I often did what I swore I'd never do: feed my family processed food. My friend Nancy taught me to market "Pick Your Own Cereal Night" as a treat. They have all grown up just fine, the older ones only slightly resentful that Julie, the last at home, gets the homemade fettuccine and baguettes. Sorry, guys. I was tired.

R is for Running. Now, I run for exercise. Then, I ran to rescue Evan from being flattened by passing vehicles (he was a darter), to scoop spiderweb out of PJ's mouth (don't ask), to make it on time to Sheridan's back-to-school night. Now, I actually have workout clothes. Then, every minute was a workout, so I didn't notice or care what I wore, provided it was relatively spitup-free. Then, some hours (2 AM feedings, 4 AM screamfests) were truly endless. Now, I wonder: how did the years race by so fast?

Happy Mother’s Day to all!