Not Even a Gold Watch

Thirty-three years ago after four years of marriage, a move to a new city, and a total lack of desire to hunt for a new job, I decided the time was right to have a baby. I was undeterred by the fact that we lived in a one bedroom rental, had only a minimum amount of money in the bank and no secretly stashed savings -- not to mention that I knew absolutely nothing about babies and childrearing. Why would these little things matter? I'd learn. We would survive. It would all work out. And within the year, our first daughter arrived. I left the hospital, headed (baby in arms; no carseat in those days!) for home and my new career: motherhood. Sure I faced a stiff learning curve, literally learning how to diaper (once again olden days-cloth diapers), feed, bathe, and care for my precious infant by reading the baby book and following the diagrams. There was no baby nurse, no mother, no mother-in-law to help. It was just me and my husband (while he wasn't working), but it didn't matter. I had found my passion, my calling, my career. I was a mother.

Two years later our family of three grew to a family of four with the birth of another daughter.
And as the years sped by I surrounded myself with all the trappings of my well-loved career -- a station wagon, carpools, volunteer jobs in the schools, Brownie scout leader, chief cook and bottle washer. Some days were harder than others; this career path definitely had some bumps along the way. But I loved it all. Despite my dedication and best intentions, I made mistakes. Lots of mistakes. There are so many occasions that are still painful for me to remember and how I long for a do-over. But I did the best I could at that particular time. The damage was minimal (I hope) and my girls thrived. So did I.

A decade sped by, and suddenly my husband and I realized that the babies we adored were babies no more. A meticulous planner by nature, surprisingly once again I made a snap decison. We would have another baby. And that's just what we did. Daughter number three joined her then twelve and ten year old sisters. Practice had certainly not made perfect, but experience had helped, and I felt as though with the third, I hit my stride as a mother. The next six years were busy ones, with three kids, each at a different point in her life, in the house and needing mom's attention. Then one was off to college, a quick two years later followed by her sister. But, no worries, the "baby" was still there. I was not put out to pasture.

So, how could it be that in a blink of an eye, I was waving goodbye to that baby, as she stood in front of her college dorm? For thirty, THIRTY!, years, there had been a child in my house. Someone who needed me. Someone who required my care and attention. Someone to mother. But with that wave goodbye, I was forced into a retirement I didn't want. There was no retirement party, no golden parachute, not even a gold watch. It was over without fanfare.

My husband, whom I still adore after almost forty years, and I quickly fell into a pleasant childless routine. We enjoy each other's company. We go to movies. We eat in restaurants. We do as we please. There's no one to wait up for. There's no one who needs a ride. There's no one who needs a meal. It's an easy life. I see friends, work part-time, keep up with chores. I'm sure my life appears to be quite ideal. What is not visible is the floundering, the wondering who I am if I'm not someone's mom. My daughters have grown into lovely adults. They are smart and competent and building lives and families of their own. Just as it should be. Athough I
expect they would say differently, they really do not need me any longer. They know that; I know that. My job is done. That career, motherhood, is finished. So what comes next? After all, being someone's mom is all I ever wanted.