The Seasons of a Mother By Miggy Krentel

Mother was in the springtime of her life when I arrived on earth, screaming my lungs out.  She birthed me, fed me, clothed me, cuddled me—-all at my slightest whimper.  She was young and beautiful and full of life. I adored her.

But I began to grow up and as I grew older and wiser, I thought, “My mom is not really as smart as I once thought she was.  And she even has wrinkles. That thought really shattered my universe.  But still I ran to her like an overgrown cub to let her lick my wounds, partly out of habit but mostly from a mystical umbilical cord of loyalty and devotion—a magnetic kind of glue that bound us together.

Suddenly, I was all grown up and ready to leave home.  There was another world out there I knew nothing about.  My love for her was intact but I found I could get along quite nicely without her guiding my every move.  Then that “falling in love” miracle happened to  me and I found the mate I wanted to live with the rest of my life.  Together we feathered our nest with little ones of our own.  Mother was swept into the ripe summer of her life, savoring the freedom of not having little ones tugging at her apron strings.  She smiled a lot more and wore the next size dress with grace and abandon.  She loved to visit and cuddle her grandchildren, but I noticed she did not cry when the goodbyes were said,  Summer was a good time—-for both of us.

Then, before I knew it, my own small ones were big ones.  They looked at me twice when I called and even dared to question my wisdom and years of experience.  My heart thumped sympathetically, as I remembered some of my attitudes of yesteryear.  As the years fell of the calendar like dominoes, I noticed our home was becoming quieter and emptier.  It was time for us to dream.  Perhaps now we could begin to travel.  

Before we realized it, the bloom of Mother’s summer faded and the fall season of her life took hold.  Small, nearly imperceptible changes took place in her life and had a ripple effect on our lifestyle.  We went out of town uneasily, never quite sure of how she would fare when we were gone.

I telephoned every day to see how she was doing and our conversation rambled all over the map.  Then, with no forewarning, and for no apparent reason, Daddy died.  I thought Mother would not have the fortitude or will to make it alone, but she gallantly held her head a little higher and quickened her step whenever I looked her way.  Her one consuming desire was to live by herself.   My husband and I agreed, and we became spectators watching winter swallow her.

When her driver’s license could not be renewed because of her failing eyesight, it was a red flag.  Now, I had two shopping lists and making weighty decisions as to what kind of cereal to buy for the week.

I unwittingly assumed the role of mother and she gradually slipped back into the more comfortable position of child.  It was a stunning reversal and one I did not relish.  When she fell and broke her hip, it was like the first snowstorm-bone-chilling.  Her dependency mushroomed and the head once held so high now drooped disconsolately.  I swallowed the lump in my throat and shut my eyes as I held her hands.

There was one last gift I could give her- indeed, could give to us both.  “ Mother, as long as we both have strength to stretch out hands up to God,, we are fine.  There is not one thing going on in either of our lives that He does not already know. Let’s face winter together, shall we?”