I feel like a real Mother these days since the birth of my Rhema Eve. My first baby broke me into the idea of motherhood gently but this second one had me ordering the rocking chair, setting up a lovely nursery for the first time and allowing myself to fully be swept into the tide of endless piles of baby laundry and nursing sessions all while my three year old rapid-fires questions such as “What is love?” and “Who cuts the barber’s hair?” and “Is God inside the moon?”
Not a day goes by that I don’t have fond memories of my own Mom and Dad who beautifully raised seven daughters and three sons. Tonight I bathed my little ones singing a song by Buck Owens on top of my lungs that my Mom always sang to us. Rafael really felt the music as he danced around the room naked waving his pamper as a flag.
“Oh the bells started ringing and the birds started singing and the clock on the corner struck two. Lightening started flashing and the thunder started crashing and I knew I was falling for you.”
Is it coincidence that my own mothering is awakening long-dormant musical neurons? Songs I had long forgotten are now coming to my memory as I sing my own little ones to sleep. I smile with the sweet recollection of my Mom flipping perfectly browned pancakes, whistling under her breath as we sat watching on the three barstools in the kitchen.
We were always up at dawn and I remember the routine perfectly. I can hear Dad and Mom’s bedroom door open; it had a special little click to it and then the hall way closet open. Mom and Dad got dressed and then Dad came up the stairs. He always woke us up and then said, “Breakfast!” and now that I think of it that might be the nicest way to wake up your children I’ve ever heard of.
We were around that long wooden table three times every day. 6:30 in the morning my Mom served us stacks of pancakes (which I soaked in butter and warm maple syrup and neatly cut into squares) fresh farm eggs with homemade toasted bread, or pots of oatmeal or corn mush. After breakfast we gathered into the living room where we read the bible, sang a few songs, and prayed together. When we were young we often fell back asleep during this family devotional time and it was the cosiest thing to lay wrapped up in blankets falling asleep to the sound of Dad praying or reading scripture.
My Mom homeschooled us young children in the basement, and she seemed to love it very much. I never felt like Mom needed a break from us as she faithfully graded all our work. When we asked for a snack at 10:00 my Mom usually chirped “an apple or nothing!” and we went to fetch one in the dank stairs of the cellar.
Lunch time was often a big hot meal and the memories of that food might catapult me straight back into my childhood. Huge pans of meatloaf and scalloped potatoes and pans of fried chicken and mashed potatoes covered in the most amazing ground beef gravy. I remember this huge chocolate cake we ate with cornstarch pudding, sheets of apple danish, and fat oatmeal whoopee pies.
There is something very significant in the meal-time routine my parents gave us. I think about it now as I struggle to teach my son to put down his spoon and pray before he eats. They did it with 10 of us. At one point Mom sat on one end of the table and Dad sat on the other to keep the peace. Dad loved orderly tables and we always passed the food to the left, kept our elbows off the table, and closed our eyes for prayer. Dad would quietly slather a piece of bread with butter and jam and eat quietly, listening to all of our clamour. Mom would taste the food and say something like, “I really want to know if you like it so I can make it again.” We loved to make Dad laugh and sometimes we were so successful we all cheered.
We worked very hard. Our afternoons were full of stacking wood and feeding animals and cleaning in the winter and endless beautiful garden work in the summer. Our feet were in the dirt every day as we hoed rows of corn and beans. We hauled in huge bowls of beautiful strawberries and peas and cartloads of beans and corn. We sat out under the maple tree to snap and husk to our hearts content.
Dinner time was often an overflow of the garden. Huge slabs of watermelon with fried zucchini sandwiches, roasted butternut squash, and cucumber salad with dill. Once in a while we would drag out the ice cream maker and a lot of salt and ice and cream later we had a huge bucket of the creamiest vanilla ice cream.
We didn’t take a bath every night but we always had to wash our feet at 8:00 and brush our teeth and get into bed. During the summer the windows were open beside our bed to let in a slight breeze and the fan was whirring beside us. Spring peepers from the swamp beside the shop chirped cheerfully into the twilight and the stars twinkled down on us. I remember laying there having no idea how rich I really was.
My Dad and Mom didn’t complicate parenting very much. I don’t remember playing many games with them or reading a lot of books together, but I was a very happy little girl because they gave me some of the most golden and beautiful memories of my life. When I got older I paced the back lawn at twilight under a golden moon restless like a young pony for the world outside my simple childhood.
I have seen that world now and it’s really not that great. I’ve seen a lot of good and beauty but I’ve also seen fathers and mothers breaking marriage covenant in their children’s most tender years. I’ve seen mothers trying to escape the endless nurturing needed in the small years and families living tucked in small apartments in huge cities were little feet never feel the dirt or learn to push seeds into the dirt to watch them grow. I have seen a lot of life since I left my childhood. I’ve seen the evil and destruction that makes this whole world groan for deliverance. I’ve stepped into stories of other childhoods wrought with heartache. I’ve moved many times and lived many places and the older I get the more my soft landing place is my home, my children, and the lovely routines I was raised in.
I wonder if contentment was the greatest gift my parents gave us.
My Mom was the happiest surrounded by her children with something good to eat. Her self care was a daily nap after lunch and a hot bath at night. She was happier then many women chasing European trips and coffee shops. My Dad never talked much about money, but loved when we spent it on something that made us happy like a shopping trip with Mom or an overnight stay in a pretty town. We didn’t do the wild and fancy things. The most adventure we had was a long trip to the west were Dad stopped to let us pick things out at souvenir shops. We thought we had the world by the tail and come to think of it, maybe we actually did.
Maybe having contented parents and close siblings and a huge farm alive with animals and plants is one of the very richest ways of living life. Maybe having your toes in dirt as you weed roes of corn and beans till your back aches is one of the happiest ways of working. Maybe the simple routines of a nourishing breakfast, lunch, and dinner with a loving family unit is one of the most peaceful ways of growing.
And for that, I honour my own Dad and Mom who faithfully did it with all crazy ten of us. You are truly incredible and I love you!
Your seventh child Kate
Photo by serjan midili on Unsplash
katekleinsasser.com 