danapop

The motherhood series continues. Click here to see the full stats on the panelists.

dp In your opinion, how has child rearing through the years changed?

Mommy A There’s a lot that has changed. Spanking is controversial. If you spank your children, it’s because you’ve lost control and are an ineffective parent. There’s too much coddling and not enough discipline. I read a book by Randy Pausch, The Last Lecture, and he wrote of the way parents and teachers are afraid to give honest feedback to their children and students. Everyone is great at everything. This leads to an inability to accurately assess one’s self and ultimately stunts the growth, development, and learning of an individual. Children today are getting away with so much more than I did as a child.

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I’ve had the privilege and joy over the last few years of seeing some of my closest friends as well as my sister and sister-in-law become mothers. It’s made me realize that for as many hats as we women wear, being a mother appears to be, quite possibly, the toughest.

That has made me think more often of motherhood in general and my own relationship with mine. I can’t say I’ve ever written a letter to my mother. Sure, emails. Sure, lengthy telephone conversations with both of us carrying on about nothing in particular. But, an honest to goodness pen to paper letter – not so much. If I were to write her, I’d likely start with a simple thank you and then express my gratitude for her nurturing and her patience throughout my life (not counting the few late high school/early college years where we couldn’t stomach the sight of each other).

In honor of mother’s day, I’ve conducted a sociological experiment of sorts. Below is the beginning of a five-part series that I’ll be posting throughout the week. I interviewed nine women – eight of whom are mothers and one who is just about to be. Each gave me such amazing honesty and insight and they made this piece what it is; and for that, I am humbled. This article reflects their caring, their time and their generosity.

Happy Mother’s Day, a five-day tribute.

Editor’s note
While I chose to not to interview my own mother here in the interest of journalistic distance, it should be noted that all photos in the series are of her and are some of my favorites.
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Almost spring – a time for cleaning out the cobwebs – both the real ones and the metaphorical ones. Clearing out a welcome in hopes of warmer, sunnier days to follow. A time for thinking about all things new and paradoxically, all things old, like home. When you’re an Army brat like me (man, I really dislike that term) growing up wherever the military sent you and with parents well past the typical age of first home buyers, where do you call home?

For me, it was the Boss’ house, a remarkable loft conversion warehouse in Leavenworth, Kansas. Remarkable not only because it was structurally unique but because my parents and us kids transformed it into our home with our own blood, sweat and tears. And it represented the culmination of everything my parents ever imagined they’d have in their dream home while chained to military housing in Panama, North Carolina, Oklahoma, Illinois, Kentucky and Hawaii.

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We all have dreams. Some big. Some small. Some professional. Some personal. Some we share out loud. Some we clutch tightly to our chests forever, never allowing them to see the light of day.

For years, I’ve had a dream – to run a half-marathon – a somewhat abstract and impossible dream – but one that steadfastly waited for me, tucked way in the back of my mind – waiting for me to let it out of its hiding place. And I can’t say exactly when that occurred, but it did and I did…I ran 13.1 miles. Done. Check that off the life list. And maybe add another…

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It was in March when my father died, suddenly and tragically. That left our family with just under a full-term pregnancy’s worth of time to prepare for and dread the Holiday Season.

By mid-November it was evident that we could not and should not spend any holiday time at my parents’ home. So my older sister agreed to host Thanksgiving at her house out of state. I claimed a work crisis that made it impossible for me to be in attendance for the turkey dinner party. From what I heard, it was a day awash in several liters of Riesling, never-ending pours of Jack Daniel’s and meltdowns galore (something about empty chairs and too many individual salt and pepper shakers)…to this day I’m slightly sorry I missed it.

So, after this complete disaster of trying to perpetuate tradition when tradition had just been forever altered – my family in its usual highly democratic manner (rock, paper, scissors – kidding – majority rules) decided to spend Christmas in New York City (NEEEW YOORK CITEE said like the Pace picante voiceover guy). I won’t bore you with the minute details, but rest assured that staying in a postage-stamp-sized apartment rife with 7 grieving adults was either the worst idea ever or an unplanned stroke of genius in its power to distract.  

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I come from a family of athletes. My grandfather and uncle both played college football. My father was a collegiate wrestler, my brother and twin sister were collegiate cross-country runners, and, to this day, my older sister holds college swimming records that remain unbroken some 14 years later. I on the other hand dabbled in several sports growing up, but never truly excelled like my siblings (and I’m fine with that – no Freud couch, seriously). Cheerleading, tennis, swimming, soccer, I did it all – reasonably well.

But running? Long-distance running? Um. Yeah. No. Yet, in a perfectly awful ironic twist, my dad was determined to have us workout together as a family as part of his never ending war with his weight. Dad’s weight was always an issue, especially during his military career as an Army officer. As a family we mostly did fun runs – an oxymoron if there ever was one. You know, the early morning weekend events that ranged from 1 mile to 3.1 miles (5K).

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