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Randall: Forgive yourself for realizing mothering is not all joyful
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Randall: Forgive yourself for realizing mothering is not all joyful

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Recently I wrote a column on how surprised I was that my job as mother didn’t end when my kids grew up. They still need me in their lives, just as I need them in mine. It’s good to feel needed, isn’t it? The real surprise was seeing how much fun we have together as grownups.

Many of you wrote to say you feel the same way I do. I love it when you say that. Thanks. And this note from a young mother filled me feelings I’d almost forgotten. She wrote:

Sharon Randall

“I enjoyed your article very much. I read it while sitting here with my newborn, 3-year-old, and 6-year-old — wondering if I’d ever sleep again, or have a date night, and basically feeling tired and overwhelmed. It gave me perspective and cheered me up, largely because it wasn’t one of those 'enjoy these moments because they go by so fast' articles. It was real and personal. Thanks for sharing it.”

Her words reminded me of how it felt to feed a helpless newborn every two hours around the clock. I promised not to use her name, so let’s just call her Lovely. Here is my reply:

Dear Lovely: Your babes are the same ages mine were a lifetime ago. I remember when my firstborn was 2 months old. He had finally fallen asleep after a half hour of screaming (his screaming, not mine, though I was close to joining him.) I held him on my shoulder, walking back and forth, never daring to sit down for fear he’d wake up.

The boy did indeed quit crying so much. He’s now in his 40’s and hardly ever cries at all. There were so many moments that filled me with joy, and quite a few I’d rather not repeat. I’m not sure how I did it, but I did.

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My grandmother had 12 children. I don’t think she knew all their names. I once asked her for her secret for surviving motherhood. She said, well, she prayed a lot. And she dipped a little snuff. But mostly, she said, she made the older kids take care of the younger ones.

I tried that once. Not the snuff. I asked my daughter, who was 6, to watch her brother, who was 3, while I took a quick shower.

I showered in 30 seconds flat. The water never got hot. I came running out in a towel and found to my horror that my daughter had used her “child safety scissors” to cut every hair off the top of her brother’s head.

On our worst days, surviving is the best we can do. When the house is a wreck and the in-laws are coming and the dog threw up on the sofa and the 6-year-old shaved the 3-year-old’s head — we aren’t doing bad. We’re just surviving. It’s called life. And it makes great stories to tell later.

I survived. So will you, Lovely.

I never had much help as a mother (except from God, who probably laughed watching my daughter shave her brother’s head.) So I’m looking forward to doing what I can as a nana.

Thank you, Lovely, for helping me remember when my children made me feel so needed, and why I stopped taking showers.

Best of Sharon Randall

Check out some of the most-read recent columns from Sharon Randall:

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This is a Christmas story. I’ve told parts of it before. But some stories bear repeating, especially at Christmas, when old things — people an…

Sharon Randall is the author of “The World and Then Some.” She can be reached at P.O. Box 922, Carmel Valley CA 93924 or at www.sharonrandall.com.

  

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