The Job that Never Ends

Home is the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in.

Robert Frost

Sometimes if I awake suddenly during the wee hours of the morning, I think I hear my mother rustling around in the other room as she begins a new day. Then I recall that soon we will be commemorating  one hundred years since her birth–more than twenty since her death. It takes me a few moments to recover from the sadness that washes over me as I remember that I’m the mother now. I sigh and then go back to sleep.

I’ve been fortunate to know hundreds, if not thousands of mothers–both kinds: women who give birth, and women who stand in the place of “mother” for the children around them. Last week a fourteen-year-old rose to the pulpit in our ward and announced that his “mother was the best one in the whole world”. The next speaker said the same thing; only she was closer to forty. It’s a sentiment most of us espouse.

But for many mothers, Mother’s Day is a day brace to themselves against the angst that comes from knowing that they do not fit the mold epitomized by flowery speeches and Hallmark cards. Unlike legendary superheroes (most of whom are men, by the way), mothers know all-too-well the limits of their capacities to be the protectors and role models for the children they love more than life itself.

Years ago I had a neighbor whom I cherished—a single mother with four kids. I don’t remember how it came about, but she inherited the heavy-duty mixer her own mother had used to bake bread for many years. One morning my friend, whose role as mom and dad and ‘breadwinner’ was stretching her to her limits, saw the mixer siting on her counter and thought perhaps that following her mother’s old, familiar baking steps might provide some comfort and peace in the constant stress of her life. So she pulled out the shortening, salt, yeast, liquid, flour, and she began. Once she had the first four ingredients thoroughly blended, she added small amounts of flour to the mix. The dough got satisfyingly smoother and thicker. But as she reached for additional flour, she somehow bumped switch on the mixer and threw it into high gear. The motor screamed in protest and began to spew bread dough in ever increasing circles around the counter, the walls–and before she could react enough to flip the lever to turn off the machine–dough was even dripping from the ceiling.

In desperation, she ripped the plug out of the wall and then, overwhelmed, she fell weeping to the floor, covered in the sticky bread dough which was dropping all around her. She said she sat there on the floor for a long time sobbing for the mom she missed so much and for her own inability to be all things to all people. Twenty minutes or so passed before she finally got the strength to stand. Eventually, of course, she rose–just as she had done every day for years.

When she came by my house later and told me this story, she said it took a couple of long hours to scrap the muck then caked on walls and ceiling and floor. Perhaps the work was cathartic. I don’t know. But I do know that the next time I visited her kitchen, it was orderly. The old mixer sat on the counter, the chrome shining as it always had. There was no sign of the earlier disaster. Monday morning she dropped her kids at school and began another week of work.

Because I’ve known and admired so many mothers like my friend, I’ve not been surprised at the media reports of refugees fleeing the war in Ukraine–images of mothers loading backpacks with only the barest of necessities and family treasures, then boarding trains–or even more demanding–walking their children across borders into safer European countries. Behind they leave their husbands, fathers, and sons to defend their homes. At the end of their journeys, they find the open arms of other mothers who pledge to feed and shelter the refugees for the coming days of the unknown.

‘Motherhood’ is not an easy job. There are no clear-cut rules or protocols; no seminars or even job performance evals. Every mother walks a different path. But here’s the thing about the mothers that I know—in the end, the part really matters most is the never giving up.