All the Little Grubbs

This will be the first Mother’s Day I have spent without my children since having my first child 9 years ago. I won’t be with my mom today either.

My Grandfather Drew has passed away and I have traveled to California to be present with my dad and my Aunt Eileen.

In our culture, it seems that whenever loved ones die, we find ourselves pouring over old photographs.  This time has been no different.

As I’ve studied the past through small aging images, trying to piece together what life was like for my Grandfather who was born in 1923, I seem to always begin with the woman (or women) in the picture.

It might be different for men, but we women seem to divide ourselves into 2 categories. Those who have (or had) children, and those who have not. This is really a shame.

What I am finally growing to understand, through maturity I suppose, is that the defining aspect of a mother is not the moment she birthed a child.  A woman becomes a mother, when she gives birth, gives life to the part of her that nurtures.

I remember that moment vividly in my life. In my 5th grade class, in my rundown school, there was a hole in the floor around a pipe. As we were sitting in class one day, we start to hear this small, quiet mewing coming from under the floor.

Of course, we were curious. When we were freed from our little wooden desks and allowed to move about the class, several of us rushed to the spot we had been eyeing for what felt like hours (it could have been minutes). As we sat hunched over, peering into the dark hole trying to see if there was really a cat stuck under us.  I sat there saying “here, kitty kitty, here kitty kitty” but we weren’t able to see or hear anything.

It seem to be several days of this, and I grew increasingly anxious that this poor little cat was going to die under our classroom.

One day when only a couple of the girls were peering over the hole (the boys had moved on to bigger and better distractions) we had the idea to try and lure the kitty closer to us with food. I can see us now, on our knees, getting dusty and dirty, using  a few fingers to grasp (slightly as to not crush the puff but with enough pressure we wouldn’t lose our grip on it) an orange cheese puff down between the hole in the tile and the pipe. We dangled and called, dangled and called then all of a sudden this furry paw shoots up and bats at the cheese puff, successfully knocking into the dark, underworld the kitty was stuck in.

From that point on, I determined that I would keep that cat. She needed to be rescued, protected, loved and fed. I was the woman for the job.

After a short time, several instances of defying authority and consequences from my teacher, principal and bus driver. I was riding home with my new cat in  a cardboard box.

That feeling, that need to nurture is what makes a woman a mother.

Some women do have children, but others, many, many others spend their lives nurturing other children, in the mission field or as an aunt. As a nanny or a neighbor. As a teacher or a friend.

Women nurture their animals, their cats and dogs, their horses.

We nurture our own parents as they age and become like little children.

I may not be with my mother today or with my children, but I feel blessed that I get to spend time with another woman in my life who has been a wonderful example of how to nurture others.