No Small Thing

Before I was old enough to hold a real job, my main source of income was babysitting.

I always had plenty of work, because I was a good at it.

I wasn't one of those babysitters that plunked themselves down on the sofa with chips and soda while the kids ran amuck. Unlike a lot of girls my age, I really liked kids, so I played with them, read them stories, took them to the park. Most of the homes where I babysat were within walking distance of my own house, and sometimes I would pile the kids in a wagon and take them to visit my Mom, who would feed them illicit goodies.

I didn't leave a mess or eat all the food or have boys over or talk on the phone all night or steal beer from the fridge. I did snoop though. Folks, if you think your babysitter is not the type of kid that would snoop, you are deluded. They're all the type; even the nice ones. It's just too much temptation. It's almost like being invisible.

Who, if granted powers of invisibility, would not spy upon their unsuspecting fellows?

We don't have babysitters regularly, but on the few occasions that we have used them, I made sure our extensive porn collection was under lock and key.

I kid.

With the internet what it is today, I can get all our porn on streaming video.

KIDDING! Honestly.

But there are certain things that I made sure were safely away from prying eyes.

Anyway, I was in high demand, and always had a pretty steady flow of cash. It wasn't unusual for me to have more offers than I could handle on the weekends, and often, I had to turn folks down. Of course, I always chose those who paid the most and whose kids were well behaved. Plentiful snacks and amenties such as a VCR definitely helped sweeten the deal.

But I did have dry spells, and during times of economic want, I would be forced to babysit for the undesirables.

There was one woman in particular that I absolutely hated babysitting for.

She was single mother. She was also a boozehound and a, erm...very friendly woman. She was hard. There was nothing soft or feminine about her, and I never understood how or why she became a mother. She wasn't nurturing. She wasn't even nice.

Of course, now, I understand how she became a mother. There was no carefull plotting of her menstrual cycle, I can assure you of that. You can be certain that there were no birth announcements or pink hued baby showers.

She lived with her two young daughters in the upper level of a once graceful victorian that was slowly crumbling into a state of thorough and inexorable disreputability.

There was no television and very little furniture. There were sheets tacked over the windows. There were no rugs on the scarred and worn hardwood floors. There were no homey touches anywhere. It was a cold, barren, depressing place.

There was never any food in the refrigerator, but always plenty of beer. Once, she gave me a knowing look, laughed harshly and said, "Help yourself."

It wasn't beer that she was offering me. She might as well have said...Help yourself to hopelessness. Help yourself to not having any choices. Help yourself to a future as bleak as mine.

I never did help myself.

The girls, who were 4 and 2, slept on a ancient iron bestead in a room that was mostly empty. No toy chest, no toys, no cheery curtains at the windows, no sign at all that little girls lived and played there.

The bed had only a bare mattress upon it, that was stained and sagging in the middle. I hated putting them to bed on that thing. They had no pillows and each had one blanket that was scarcely large enough to cover them. They slept in old t-shirts that were so thin I could see their slender bodies and their drooping, threadbare underpants right through them.

Every time I put those little girls to bed I felt terribly sad. It was a maternal sadness, though I couldn't recognize it such since I was not yet a mother. But the sight of their bare feet poking out from beneath those threadbare blankets made my heart feel like a two ton anchor.

One night, she came home even later than usual; almost 4 am. As usual, she reeked of booze and cigarettes, but tis time, she was drunker than I had ever seen her, and though I didn't realize it at the time, probably high as well.

The man she was with had to practically carry her up the stairs. She giggled and groped him as he tried to wrestle her onto the mattress that served as her bed. He offered to take me home, and looked at me in a manner I knew all too well. As usual, I declined. I walked the two blocks home alone, in the dark.

When I got home my Dad was waiting up. He told me tersely to go to bed and then he put on his coat. As I watched him walk down the street in the pre-dawn haze, I knew that although he was outwardly calm, he was very, very angry. There were many reasons for his anger that I couldn't understand at the time. Naievely, I thought it was because she had come home so late.

But my Dad was no dummy. He knew what was going on in that dingy little apartment. And the time had come to put a stop to it.

I never babysat there again.

Years later I found out that not only had he paid her a visit, but he had called the authorities and those little girls were taken away. He just needed to see for himself that he was doing the right thing. And he was.

So...what is the point of telling that story?

Well...you know...I read so many posts here in the blogosphere about our inadequacies as mothers.

I feel them myself.

I yell too much. I'm not consistent enough with discipline. I rely on punishments and lectures far too often instead of finding really positive and effective ways to teach my kids. I forget to check agendas, sign permission slips, send in supplies they need. I miss PTA meetings. I skip doctor appointments now and then.

On several occasions, I let my kids stay home from school because I just didn't feel like getting out of bed and facing the Herculean task of getting them ready. In my defense, that was when they were in kindergarten or pre-school. I don't and wouldn't do it now.

I don't always meet the challenges of parenting them with patience or good grace. Sometimes, I resent not having "normal" kids. Oh, they're smart and creative and just...fantastically unique. But they're not easy. And sometimes that pisses me off.

The list goes on. The point is, I can always find plenty to say about what I am doing WRONG as a mother. All of those things make me feel like a bad mother.

But do you know...just the simplest things we do, matter.

Putting fresh clean sheets on their beds.
Washing their clothes when they are dirty.
Making sure they have a coat when they need it.
Feeding them.
Bathing them and brushing their teeth (or, if they're older, making sure they do it themselves)
Reading stories.
Hugging them.
Giving them medicine when they are sick.

They are, to us, things unworthy of praise singing. It's just what Moms do. I don't think we realize that so many children don't have those things. And we don't give ourselves credit for doing something right by providing them.

Every morning, I get up with my kids, fix them breakfast, sit beside them while they eat, pack their snack, give them their meds and a vitamin, and supervise personal hygeine. I wait at the door, sipping my coffee and watching until the bus comes.

I wave.

And sometimes I think...if something happened, if they were taken from me, either by a person or a twist of fate...I know that at least I did that for them. In that small way, in those too short moments...I was a good Mom.

I fixed them breakfast and stood waving.

Such a big small thing.

I don't think to be proud of that, but I should. So should you.

So the next time you're folding clothes, or making a bed, or fixing yet another snack, or ferrying them to yet another appointment, stop and congratulate yourself on a job well done.

And try to remember that when it comes to Mothering...there is no such thing as a small thing.

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Thanks to everyone for the terriffic music suggestions! I can't wait to sit down this weekend and go through and listen to all the choices. There's a lot of stuff there I don't recognize, so I'm anticipating some new and wonderful discoveries.

I knew you wouldn't let me down!