The aftermath of a quiet Mother's Day

Thu, May 15, 2008

It was the night before Mother's Day and I was home alone. My husband had gone to East Lansing to move our daughter into an apartment she is renting for the summer — the summer before her senior year of college. There is certain finality in that move.

Rain was forecast for Mother's Day; and with a mattress atop the car, she determined it best to go while the sun was shining.

The day before, she stood at the kitchen counter reading aloud parts of the Tribune. "Well, Mom, the oldest gorilla on record is two years younger than you." Enough said.

Earlier in the day, one son rejected my motherly advice, and assured me he would not give unsolicited counsel to his son 28 years hence. Rather, he would simply say, "I'll pray for you."

Another son called to update me on preparations for his imminent departure to some obscure eastern European location where he and his wife will serve for two years in the Peace Corps. Son number three called me Sunday with best wishes — on his 10th Mother's Day away from home.

Well, I admit, I've been a gorilla once or twice in my motherhood, but I'm still praying for the four of them, believe you me. This includes four significant others as well, and then a grandson and a half.

Motherhood is a quagmire of blooms and briars, smelling sweet — but given to blood-letting from time to time.

My sister-in-law recently complimented me on raising "such independent children." Let me assure you, this was not my plan. I gambled in Las Vegas once. It was difficult for me to part with a roll of nickels.

Motherhood has been like that for me. I tend to hang tight-fisted to my investments. I dreamed of my children settling into homes a few blocks from mine — as if the sandy beaches, fireworks and holiday celebrations would be adequate compensation for them.

As a little girl, living in the interior of the state, I dreamed of living on Lake Michigan. Who could want for anything more? Alas, the "four corners of the Earth" (the places all the missionaries went when I was small) have been calling my tribe — like sirens, voices full of enchantment and adventure.

In 1975, my husband and I were hired by the Ottawa County Juvenile Court system to accompany three teenage girls on a camping trip to Canada. An ambitious pilot program, the adventure was intended to strengthen the character of the young girls, hopefully to give them a new outlook on life. We were heading to the Quetico region of Canada to camp, fish and canoe. Buoyed by the confidence the social workers had in our abilities, lots of outdoor experience tucked into our resumes, our black Lab puppy Baron along for comfort, we drove north to the land of a thousand lakes.

The first two days on the road and out onto the lakes — paddling in two canoes on placid waters, fishing for walleye and bass — couldn't have been better. The second day out, with the sun shining brightly, we decided to give the girls a chance to negotiate by themselves in one canoe.

Just before noon, we pulled our canoe ashore on an island to avoid the mid-day heat. We waited for the girls to join us. Our view, obscured by the trees, offered the girls the perfect opportunity to execute their teamwork. They simply turned their canoe around and headed back to base camp several miles away.

We were aghast at our error in judgment and possible consequences. Still paddling several hours later, the skies were angry with lightning and thunder, echoing our terror. We pulled in along the bank of the camp amid the soggy reeds.

One of the young girls crouched there, a rain poncho pulled over her like an umbrella. The drenching downpour roared as we hollered out. The other two had left her to hitchhike into a town, 45 miles away. Miraculously, they returned a couple hours later — having pilfered some Oreo cookies from a grocery store and snagging a ride back to the provincial park with a trucker.

The trip and its survival plan looked much different after that day. We were all broken during those hours; those with pride and those with none.

Perhaps the girls were frightened by their own boldness. I know we were humbled by it. Yet, out of the nightmare, the skies cleared. The entire group found a new rhythm and respect for each other.

Had we not ventured, we would not have gained.

Thirty-some years later, I look at my own brood striking out on their own. I'm not always certain which canoe they're in. Are they following, or turning around paddling madly in the opposite direction? Is the sun shining or is it storming? Mostly, I'm not sure.

I do know that I'm not always kicking and dragging behind. I've actually been known to cheer for them as they go. And as I keep paddling my own canoe through waves and calm, I'll venture a little cheer for me, too.

After all, that's what Mother's Day is all about.