I always wanted to be a mother one day. I was still a child
myself when I started dreaming about my future offspring. All my other
aspirations were fluid and flexible. Motherhood wasn’t. No one encouraged me in
that direction. I wasn’t remotely interested in baby dolls, preferring to play
out my own versions of my mom’s hot and steamy soap operas with my Barbie’s and
their beaus.
The funny thing is I’ve never been a touchy-feely person. My
husband is the nurturer in our family. I grew up with parents who were more hands-off. Being accident prone, I knew where the Band-Aids
were and how to take care of my own scrapes and injuries. Provided I didn’t
need the hospital, the most important thing was to not bleed on the carpet. It
was up to me to address my sniffles, coughs, headaches, and more without making
a fuss. I’m still like that. My husband says I’m a crappy nurse. I can’t even
argue with him. Fortunately, our kids aren’t. They seem to have taken after
their dad and on occasion, all have nursed me. A stark contrast to how I parented. I taught the boys to shake it off whenever they got hurt. I didn't cuddle or coddle them unless it was a bad accident.
But I’m crazy about my boys. My maternal gene might be weak
in some areas, but I sang to my kids, read to them, played with them, and took
them into the woods all the time. My youngest two were barely out of diapers
when I was setting them down in a canoe and pushing off from shore, my eldest
and I paddling to the beautiful state park across from our home. We’d beach the
boat and take long walks where I’d teach the boys the names of the trees and
plants. We’d talk insects and birds, and pick up trash if we saw it on the
ground.
I wasn’t the cookie baking mom, hubs does that. I was the
mom who’d talk their ears off about politics and safe sex in the truck on the
way to and from the bus stop. I was the one who’d get playful and sneakily drive toward big puddles while distracting them with conversation, my hand
quietly straying to the automatic window
buttons on my door. As soon as they realized I planned to splash them, it got
really interesting, and even more fun. I was the mom who put on bright lipstick
and chased my shrieking boys around the house. When they made a mad dash
outside and locked themselves into my car, still laughing and screaming, I
kissed my way around the windows, showing them what was in store for them if
they dared to come out. I was the mom who raced them for the best swings at the
park, brought waxed paper so the slides would be faster, and adored spinning. I
loved to stare at cloud formations as much as they did. I was the one who sat
at their darkened window before bed to watch the fireflies below, and point out
the stars above.
I might not have been a natural mom in the traditional
sense, but I like that I was a naturalist
mom. Who else would haul their kids out of bed to watch meteor showers and the
northern lights on a school night?
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