Weathering the stormy music of motherhood

By Mary Kay Roth

I’m perched atop my front porch on this gusty Saturday evening during a pretty fierce thunderstorm, listening to the peal of wind chimes that line the front eaves of my house.  Most of these chimes are gifts from my children from past decades of Mother's Days. At some point, long ago, Josh and Anna expressed frustration in finding gifts for me on two consecutive weeks each spring since my birthday also happens in May. We landed on a solution: Wind chimes every Mother’s Day.

The resulting collection is an eclectic mix of fragile seashells and sturdy metal – thunking wood and tinkling porcelain beads – solar lights, sea glass, bells, even silverware. Sometimes they barely jingle in the breeze. Other times they shimmy recklessly. And occasionally, like during tonight’s furious gales, they might lose a piece or two.   

No matter, when the Nebraska winds blow, the chimes come together in a cacophonous symphony of noise that makes me smile, knowing that motherhood has been the background music for most of my life.

Of course, each spring the annual advertisements for Mother’s Day inevitably feature lilting lullabies underscored with pictures of chubby-cheeked cherubs and darling toddlers. Please understand, there’s nothing wrong with those angelic images.

But in all my years I’ve never seen ads celebrating moms who have survived decades of non-fantasy motherhood: Moms weary from sleepless nights when kids miss curfew, go missing, run away. Moms whose stomachs twist into knots when an adolescent screams in anger, rolls their eyes with sass, slams the door in exasperation. Moms who dissolve into sad, worried their children will self-destruct. Moms with stacks of books at their bedside, books filled with useless advice on how to handle impossible years.  

Granted, those images wouldn’t sell many flowers. But the truth is, motherhood is a tough gig, less roses and Hallmark movies and more bumps, bruises, hard-knock lessons and plain old stubborn tenacity.

Wonderful friends gave me a special art piece, years ago, with these well-worn words:  “I thought I would show the world to my children, but instead they have shown it to me.” 

Today, in my 60s, I’m less starry-eyed and more clear-eyed in looking back on the seasons and storms of motherhood – accepting the lessons I’ve learned, the heartache I’ve survived, the unexpected joy I’ve lived. The roller coaster of being a mom has taken me on the scariest rides of my life and the best rides of my life.

This weekend our family came together to honor my daughter, Anna, for earning her master’s degree in nursing. And though I loved celebrating her first steps as a toddler, there was far deeper delight when she walked across the stage to get that diploma.

It was a serene moment in the whirling storm we call Anna, a wild child who smashed into wall after wall and never seemed to learn. A child who, after barely squeaking through high school, “chose” to stop attending three different colleges. A child who took me to dark places and who, though I never stopped loving, occasionally didn’t always like.

Those wind chimes blew hard and rough for a while. I have no explanation for how we survived. In the midst of of the hardest times, one wise woman told me, “This too shall pass,” words I considered completely lame – until time did indeed pass, there was a seismic shift in the sands of parenthood and the days of simply hoping to retain some level of sanity – were gone. 

Just like that, the calm after the storm, no more temper tantrums and teen hormones. Instead, first jobs, health insurance benefits, that first glimmer of passion for a meaningful life. And graduation ceremonies this week, when the child who occasionally broke my heart – filled it back up again.

“Some of your chimes have seen better days,” my daughter observed as she arrived for her graduation party on Friday.  "Yep," I said, hugging her closely. 

And those are my favorites. The ones missing a piece or two yet still making music.  The survivors, sometimes dangling by a thread, yet clanging all the same.

So, this Sunday, I raise a toast to all the mothers. The ones with bouncing babies and dewy-eyed toddlers. The ones wondering if the interminable and difficult years of adolescence will ever end.  But most especially to the ones who have weathered the storm and emerged with a deeper more resilient maternal love made of texture and grit. 

If we’re lucky, we have raised authentic, compassionate children who love well, who care for others in a way that makes us proud. Who land on our doorstep at holidays with bonus family members. Who roast turkeys, wash the dishes, laugh with abandon.

If we’re lucky, we have raised children who teach us to be better people – who teach us to take unexpected detours as mothers and still find our way – who teach us it is possible to dance, even when the rains howl.

If we’re lucky, we have raised children who will offer us a new set of chimes this year, adding to the glorious off-key, not always harmonious, but still amazing music of motherhood.

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