Mother, May I?
Trailing me around the house as I attempted to pat her newborn sister to sleep, my firstborn once announced, “Mommy, I’m follnuff you!” After all these years, whenever I am following behind someone, whether through the grocery aisles or as directed, I recall her sweet two-year-old voice with tenderness. She loved being a big sister to all five of her siblings and still does, only these days, she does so from afar since she is raising her unique crew of six.
When her second brother was still an infant, she stayed home from school to help me take care of him when I was ill, bringing him to me in bed so he could nurse. She was only ten, but she already had great maternal instincts. When her third brother was born, she was disappointed he was male instead of female, yet as soon as she held his tiny form, she fell in love.
The day her fourth brother was born, she drove to the hospital to meet him and became the first family member to change his diaper. In those days, she often joined me at basketball games, sharing in baby care so I could properly cheer like a maniac as her siblings ran the courts. I am amazed by how much love she holds to share, but bothered that she never asked, “May I grow up, Mother?”
Once her younger sister learned to walk, she rarely let her big sister out of sight. It did not take long before daughter number two developed her distinct personality and quickly asserted herself. Her blond hair and blue eyes melted me, her perpetual, cheery disposition earning her the nicknames “Sunshine” and “Buttercup.”
That little girl could belt “Over the Rainbow ” like no other toddler, singing about happy, little ‘bluebodes’ who fly ‘beyon da wainbow’ with intensity surpassed only by her obvious passion for life. As she grew, she nourished her music skills and her people skills. By the time she left for college, she had won the admiration of students and teachers alike and today, she continues to inspire the middle schoolers and faculty members who enter her classroom.
Within a poem I composed for her as a birthday gift one year, I wrote:
Each April, I count her as one of my blessings
because she follows the Golden Rule,
loving with passion and fairness
She’s my Easter daughter —
a goddess of springtime.
I am in awe at her capacity to show compassion, but sad that she never asked, “May I grow up, Mother?”
After two girls, the birth of a boy was exciting. His sisters doted on him, singing, chatting, and orchestrating playtime in such a way that he naturally became quiet and reflective. His talents, however, spoke loudly of his abilities, proven when he attended his first basketball camp at five years old and ten years later when he started on the varsity team.
Athleticism was in his veins, but so were academics, which meant he excelled in his studies, also. His heart and mind led him to medical school and today he cares for pediatric patients who need psychiatric care. This is not a surprise, since I watched him become a phenomenal brother who never had a problem bonding with his siblings.
I remember spying on him as he created LEGO projects, dancing with him on my hip to the theme song from Doogie Houser, M.D., and gently caressing his grandmother as she reached for a kiss. Without closing my eyes, I can picture him standing tall and proud in his king’s robe on Christmas Eve and wrestling with his brothers on the trampoline. Today I watch with pride as he dances with his daughter on his shoulders and spars playfully with his little boy on the couch, but I am disappointed that he never asked, “May I grow up, Mother?”
Since child number four was another boy, one might think things evened out and neither sex had an advantage in the household. Yet, this child had a spirit that enabled him to persuade anyone to his advantage, and by this, I don’t mean he was selfish. Contrarily, he was a kind and generous child, traits he has held onto for all his years thus far.
His father called him a “spitfire” because he sometimes displayed a mean temper, particularly when losing in a video game. Nowadays, he gets fired up about the injustices in the world and I can sense his heart breaking when he vents about crimes gone unpunished. With his law degree, he would make an excellent politician if he chose to be one and he would be one of the few honest, fair-minded elected officials in the nation.
There is a picture in an old photo album of him around four years old staring pensively out a window in a crew cut that flaunted his ears, the ones that resemble his grandfather’s. Another photo of him about a year later reveals his affable personality as he poses with a larger, kindergarten friend who supports him in a cradle hold, both boys wearing huge grins. His ability to charm with no effort inspires me, but I am bothered that he never asked, “May I grow up, Mother?”
Like his name, boy number three, our fifth child, sparkled like an angel. I composed a poem about him when he was five months old entitled “Entertaining Angels” because I loved how when lying on his back, he cooed and waved his arms as though enthralled by and engaging with angels. As an adult, he amuses his friends and family with wisecracks and one-liners.
Having older athletic siblings meant this child grew up in a gymnasium, eventually joining their ranks. In addition, a bold, independent streak also put him on soccer and baseball fields. Destined to coach in and out of a classroom, he took his penchant for sports and affinity for teaching to a Master’s level, and with prowess and dauntless determination, he has achieved goals that benefit all the young individuals he guides.
Waiting in my car for basketball practice to end one evening, I listened to one of my favorite Christian CDs, one that as an adolescent boy, he tolerated and sometimes enjoyed. Just as he slid the door open to climb in the van, the lyrics from “You Are Mine” reached the part: “Come and follow me, I will bring you home. I love you and you are mine.” Grateful, so grateful, that he is mine, I will forever thank God for the blessing of this resourceful, witty, blue-eyed boy, but I am dismayed that he never asked, “May I grow up, Mother?”
When the last of the bunch was born, there was no way he could avoid pampering. With five older siblings holding him dear, literally and figuratively, he quickly mastered all the fine qualities of his earlier constituents. Being at the tail end of the family enabled him to breeze through typical toddlerhood, gaining proficiency in language and relishing the advantage of having older sisters and brothers to reveal the way of the world.
The baby book in which I recorded his feats and favorites, however, has a note that mentions he does not like when his teenage, oldest brother, also his Godfather, firmly tells him “Nooooo.” Apparently, he was not spoiled as much as I remember. Then again, his Godmother, who happens to be daughter number two, bought him a huge, white teddy bear before he was five days old and never ceased parading him all over the place.
Like his oldest sister, he followed me everywhere, even to the university where I completed my degree and where he easily grew bored in daycare. He begged for stories at bedtime and coaxed me too many times to lie down with him as he fell asleep, knowing that eventually, I would doze before he even shut his eyes. Though I miss this little guy at home, all he has achieved as a young man of the 21st century both academically and personally blows me away, but I am shaken as to why he never asked, “May I grow up, Mother?”
In the old-fashioned game of Mother, May I, the first child to reach Mother is the winner, whereas in the perpetual game of Motherhood, no one wins, or we all win. We moms smile and snivel when we reminisce about our children no matter what stage of the game, full of gratitude for new memories, yet melancholy because the old ones have passed. I forgive you, my children, for flourishing and taking maturity for granted, for never asking me if I cared that you grew because I treasure every one of the moments we have shared, and since after all, I never asked my mother either.
