News Trend Mothering |Actual

From bottom left, clockwise:

for those mourning their mama

for trans mamas

for those who have painful relationships with their moms

for mamas who have lost a child

for stand in mamas

for mamas of fur babies

for teachers who love their students as kids

for bonus step moms

for moms

for first time mamas

In the past decade or two, on Mother's Day and all through the year, our culture has spoken out more often about the different kinds of mothering.

Of course, it's been that way all along. Throughout history, women have found room in their hearts and at their supper tables for children not of their own bodies, and that has always been a beautiful part of life.

But these days we are talking about it more often, and making a point to be thoughtful and inclusive enough to recognize and celebrate women who mother in the broader sense of the word.

I am for that. I am 100% behind anything and everything we can do to inscribe value to this incredible art of creation and nurture that we call mothering.

My only concern is that by lifting up the different kinds of mothering, we may inadvertently suggest that mothers are one or the other, compartmentalized as bio mom, foster mom, pet mom, and so on.

The truth is much more subtle and interesting than that.

Take me, for example.

First and foremost, I call myself a bio mom, and I consider it the biggest blessing and privilege of my life to have raised four daughters bred from my bone. And let's be honest, that blood connection matters.

A couple years ago, when I met my new brother-from-another-mother, a secret sibling who had grown up knowing he was adopted, he told me in no uncertain terms that as much as he loved his real (adoptive) parents and sister, he craved that blood connection. And when his first child was born, he felt incredible joy in the knowledge that finally, on this earth, he knew of someone who shared his blood.

I'm not a foster mom or an adoptive mom, but I've had a long line and a steady stream of young people passing into my house and through my life who I have mothered. My daughter's friends. My students. My Girl Scouts. My youth group kids.  And let's not even get started on all the toddlers who have wandered into my life and stayed around to play and eat popsicles at my house.

I mother adults too, though I don't like to say it that way. People who struggle with grief, anxiety, depression, addiction. With a bad break-up or a career crisis. With kids who are running amok. People who need someone to sit down, shut up, and listen without passing any judgment or parceling out unwanted advice. I prefer to call that friendship, but it really is a form of motherly nurturing and care.

I mother with wild abandon my dogs. Interestingly, I never think of them as my children but I definitely see that I mother them, each one my darling and special red-headed mischief-making only, and I have loved each one of them with my whole heart.

In a mind-bending reversal of roles, I mothered my mother on her journey through Lewy Body Dementia. Another example of how mothering does not imply an adult-child relationship; instead it speaks to nurture and care. I mothered my mother fiercely.

And sometimes, I find that I need to mother myself.

You see my point?

Most women are more than just this type of mom or that type of mom. We all pour fourth many kinds of mothering not just over our lifetimes but on any given day, because that's just how we roll.

We are not, as the image suggests, individual flowers in the garden of mothering.

Each one of us is the whole darn bouquet.

* * * * *

My latest thoughts on mothers and mothering:

May Day

Grandmother's Christmas Cactus

Mothering

Passionate Moms

News Trend Pie People|Actual

We are pie people and that?S just a darn fact.

This goes way back through the generations on both sides of the family tree.

For Thanksgiving, while the rest of the relatives contributed apple, pecan, and pumpkin pies to the feast, my family of origin was known for chocolate cream. The others loved to joke and tease about that - "Who eats chocolate pie for Thanksgiving?!" they would heartily chortle. But when the knives began to flash and the pies were offered up, their tune changed. "I guess I'll try a little piece of that chocolate."

Mhmm.

In many areas of his life, my father lacked in common sense and good graces. But one of his few-and-far-between redeeming qualities was that he always requested lemon meringue pie for his birthday instead of the usual cake.

I approved.

* * * * *

Over on my husband's childhood dining room table, his mom ceremoniously baked a pie every Saturday for his dad, grandfather, and bachelor uncle to enjoy for Sunday dinner. (You know, the midday meal in farm folk language.)

My father-in-law was not otherwise a demanding or picky man, but for him, it was fruit pies all the way.

Cherry.

Black raspberry.

Rhubarb.

Peach.

Blueberry.

And of course, apple.

Most of the fruit came from local farms and orchards, lovingly frozen in mass quantities by my mother-in-law so she could pamper her husband with his favorite flavors all year long.

See what I mean? This is serious devotion to pie.

Often, for her birthday, after a year of endless fruit pies, my selfless and soft-spoken mother-in-law treated herself to her own favorite flavor of pie: coconut cream. I love that she indulged in this little act of rebellion for her special day. Fruits be damned; the queen of all pie bakers wants custard!

* * * * *

My husband inherited the fruit pie gene, and I've done my best to step into his mother's enormous pie-baking shoes. He sure hasn't enjoyed the weekly pies that his mother provided but  I've done my best to whip him up a half dozen or so every year. My special addition to his family-of-origin pie tradition was a la mode presentation; although he disdained the idea at first, even my father-in-law couldn't say no to a bit of vanilla ice cream on the plate. At my table, pie and ice cream share an inviolable bond.

Of course, it goes without saying that our family pies must be made from scratch. We've learned to make do with a certain type of canned cherry - they're extra tart! - but otherwise the fruit must be fresh, and the pastry of course home made and hand trimmed.

Don't even joke about bringing a store-bought pie into this house. That would NEVER fly.

As my daughters grew up, I wasn't a bit surprised when they became little pie fanatics all their own. Though normally we did our best to instill reasonable table manners, pie nights were the one time when my girls were allowed - even encouraged - to pick up their almost-empty plates of pie and ice cream, and lick up every last drop.

As parents, we felt responsible for modeling the proper technique. To this day, we all six heartily lick our pie plates clean.

I also took it as my duty to be sure that each of my daughters could turn out a hand-made pie. Happily, I can report that they have all successfully done so, but it's my fourth-born who has really taken to the challenge.

My daughter's rhubarb masterpiece, ready for the panggang,

complete with her grandma's fluted baking pan. It lives with us now.

For my husband's recent birthday, she gifted him with the promise to bake him as many pies as he can eat, as fast as he can eat them.

There has been a freshly baked pie popping out of the panggang every three or four days.

Cherry.

Lemon.

Peach.

Blackberry.

And this week, rhubarb.

Pretty as a picture.

Not only are my daughter's pies delicious but they are immaculately designed. She perfects every element of the process - fruit sliced to precisely uniform size, juices thickened just so, and crusts woven to delicate perfection.

She also bakes them on my mother-in-law's special aluminum drip pan, and we think of her every single time we use it.

* * * * *

For Mother's Day, my daughters asked me what I wanted for dinner.

Nothing fancy, I said, just the usual steaks or salmon on the grill.

But what I really wanted, I told my youngest, was a pie.

Happy Mother's Day to my pie-baking mother-in-law,

whose traditions live on in our pie-loving family.

Coconut cream, please. For my mother-in-law and me.

News Trend Passionate Moms|Actual

"I can promise you that women working together - linked, informed and educated - can bring peace and prosperity to this forsaken planet." -Isabel Allende

Foster moms can be a passionate bunch.

Same for

health and wellness moms

adoptive moms,

moms of kids with autism,

homeschooling moms,

tiger moms,

moms of kids with special needs,

moms of twins,

moms of preschoolers,

moms of children who are seriously ill,

moms of addicts,

moms of children who have turned to violence,

moms of kids who committed suicide,

and mothers of kids who have been killed by drunk drivers.

So here's my point: all of those moms who have committed their hearts and minds to a specific cause, and give unendingly not only to their own sons and daughters but to all children who gather under that particular banner are beautiful.

All of those causes are beautiful.

All of those mothers' passionate work is motivated by love.

And I truly believe that, while God loves us no matter what we do or don't do, he is pleased with anyone who cares for children, no matter what the specifics of the particular situation.

But there are times, though I hate to say it, that some of those particular types of mothers lift up their own special cause as different

or better

or more important

or closer to God's heart

than the causes that other mothers lift up.

Rather than revel in the beauty of every form of passionate mothering, I hear voices saying, "Yes, this is the most important form of mothering. Every mother should consider doing this."

And sometimes I can make out, in the whispers between the words, "God loves this kind of mothering best."

Now, I understand the passion in those voices, both whispered and spoken aloud.

There is nothing that feels more right and good and truly empowering than to step into the call that God has planned for you. And there's nothing more affirming and life-giving than getting that sense of spiritual confirmation that you are exactly where you are supposed to be, doing exactly what God created you to do.

I'll be the first to acknowledge that passionate moms can easily get so wrapped up in their causes that it's hard for them to imagine being any other way. Back in the day, I was a homeschooling mom as intense as they come - I loved everything about homeschooling  and knew without question that this was the ideal lifestyle not only for my own family but for all children and their families. I would drag out my soapbox to expound on the merits of this lifestyle to anyone who would listen, and encouraged every mother who showed even a flicker of interest in homeschooling to give it a try. I wanted every child in the world to learn this way, and I tirelessly reached out to other homeschooling families to give them a hand up. As further proof of my endless passion for homeschooling, let me point out that eight years after graduating my youngest daughter, I'm still supporting homeschooled kids by teaching algebra to homeschooled high school students.

Passion is a beautiful thing.

But, you know, allow me to point out the obvious.

God built us all to do different things.

So. While one mom is advocating for kids with attention deficit issues, another is serving as a doula for laboring moms, and a third is influencing legislation to help hungry kids get healthy breakfasts at school.

There's no hierarchy to these needs. One form of mothering is just as valid and essential to our children as the next. Every single passionate act of mothering counts.

And when we passionate moms can work together, fully appreciating the unique and varied gifts we each bring to the world, that is the very best we can do for the children that we all love so much.

* * * * *

My latest thoughts on mothers and mothering:

May Day

Grandmother's Christmas Cactus

Mothering

Passionate Moms

News Trend Sweet Columbine|Actual

"Some plants become weeds simply by virtue of their success rather than any other factor.

You merely want less of them. " -Monty Don

This bouquet won the Most Riotous award.

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, I bought three purple Columbines and planted them in my garden.

There, I thought. What beautiful flowers. Someday they will fill in and make my yard look like a proper alpine meadow.

Ha.

That's ironic.

And this one wins Most Delicate. It's my favoirite.

Probably three or four years went by before I realized my predicament.

Columbine flowers happily reseed themselves. Which mean my original three quickly expanded to a dozen, and then fifty, and by the third year, into the hundreds.

And these new plants did not just settle in around their mother's skirts. No, no - they blew far and wide across my yard, popping up their purple heads up in every corner.

These flowers had not yet bloomed when I harvested them.

Which, you know, is not really the worst thing in the world. Lots of plants reseed themselves - foxglove roam even more freely around my gardens - but what makes the Columbine truly notorious is the fearsome power of its root system. Even the tenderest little sprout can dig in its heels and cling to the soil with incredible tenacity and strength.

Which means, in short, Columbines are the very devil to remove.

And for every tiny fragile baby that I don't get in one season, I have a dozen more to pry loose by the next year.

They are a bit smaller than the others, more delicate in shape and in color.

Over the decades, I have plucked and pinched and prodded those innocent-looking leaves till my fingers ache, only to find that my Columbine situation really does grow worse every year.

That vision of my yard turning into an alpine meadow was no joke, people. These suckers are trying to take over.

As much as I've come to gnash my teeth at the Columbine in my garden,

I simply adore them in vases around my house.

So it was with a heavy heart this past week that I observed the annual bloom of my Columbine invasion. And just as I felt the usual fever hit me - the mad desire to run through my front yard with a blow torch and show every one of those invasive purple monsters who's boss - I suddenly had a different idea.

Rather than destroy them, why not love my unruly usurpers into submission?

With a new thrum of happiness in my heart, I grabbed my trusty Fiskars and cheerily trimmed off every stem of Columbine blooms in sight. I swept the entire armload into the house and filled vases with their charming stems and delicate bells.

Now these flowers can do me no harm. By trimming them off and bringing them inside, I have rendered their Columbine reseeding super power inert. None of them will produce seeds to fall to the subur soil, and none of them will ever contribute to the population explosion that has tormented me for all these years.

Both my garden and I are breathing a blissful sigh of relief. And now, much to my surprise, I find my Columbine to be rather sweet.

News Trend Dog Chair|Actual

In my bedroom sits a dog chair.

It's not just for dogs. Humans can sit there too. But dogs have a special invitation to curl up in this chair, and all three of my dogs have done so.

It's a fairly old and run down chair. But that's just the right kind of chair for dogs.

It is also, apparently, a cat chair. My three cats have all loved it too, and during the day, when my dog is usually busy following me around the other rooms of the house, the cats slip into my room to gaze out the window while perched on the arm of the chair or to curl up in the chair, a perfectly tidy circle of cozy fur in the big seat.

Gracie is okay with that, as long as the cats clear out at night. She likes to sleep in the dog chair at night. Though she is welcome to snooze on the foot of the bed, this pooch mostly chooses to crash out on either her floor rug or the dog chair. Usually some of both.

This morning, Luna put on quite a show, rubbing her head on the little table full of plants, my legs, even on Gracie's head resting on the arm of the dog chair.

Luckily, Gracie doesn't mind sharing a little head rubbing from a friendly cat.

That's a nice thing about a dog chair. It lends a peaceful, gentle, forgiving air to the room, and brings out the best in everyone.

And it is also a very good place to keep your eye on your prize possessions.

* * * * *

For another story about Gracie and her rawhide bones in my bedroom, read this:

Double Delight

News Trend Pet Brains|Actual

Last weekend in my backyard, the humans were busy working while the pets worked on their naps.

I do not pretend to understand my pets' minds/

Oh sure, they do a bang-up job of letting me know what they'd like me to do for them.

Their communication to me around meals, doors, and requests for attention come through loud and clear, and they have trained me to anticipate and meet their needs very well.

But certainly there is a lot more going on inside of those adorable furry heads than I can grasp.

I think Sirius is thinking how nice it feels to rest those dainty white feet.

Take chaise lounges for example.

For these last six or seven months, my back-yard lounge chairs have been under wraps, hidden away from the winter rains, and inaccessible for anyone's use.

But when we humans brought the chairs out into the sunshine last weekend, it took only a hot minute for two of my clever cats to hop up and make themselves entirely at home.

I think Luna wants me to fan him and feed him grapes.

These fabulous felines apparently had no trouble recalling the express purpose of the chaise lounges. They lounged in proper style, stretching out across the smooth, sun-warmed wood and settling in for a pair of lovely, shade-dappled, afternoon naps.

All they needed were tiny novels and meow-sized margaritas for the perfect summer relaxation experience.

Clearly my cats understand with infinite subtlety and depth the true purpose of the chaise lounge.

"Guys! No need to rest like animals on bare wood - hold out for the cushions!

In an unusually magnanimous gesture, Gracie did not challenge the cats to the chairs. She calmly watched their lounging session from her comfortable patch of grass.

And though I don't claim to understand her thoughts any more than I do the cats', I'm pretty sure my clever dog's logic was to wait her turn until we put the cushions on.

News Trend The Cure|Actual

I baked my sick friend some chocolate chip cookies

and I'm glad to report he felt well enough to eat them.

For the past couple days, I?Ve been visiting a friend who is sick.

No, it?S not Covid 19. Nor any other contagious ailment, so it?S safe enough to see him.

A number of his other friends have been visiting too so there are often three or four of us gathered in his room at the same time. Interestingly, they have all had the same malady that my friend suffers now, so they have good insights and advice to offer him.

I'm new to this but I'm learning.

My friend is mostly awake and conversant, though certainly not himself. Yesterday, he was swallowed up with pain and desperate in his suffering. We talked to him, encouraged him, brainstormed ways to help him feel more comfortable. My friend has been sick like this before and we all reminded him that if he got through it before, he can get through it again.

Positive vibes.

Breathe deep.

Drink lots of water.

Try to sleep.

During the worst of it, we considered getting him some emergency medical help, but in the end everyone agreed that he's better off staying put in his own bed. Miserable as he is, we know for a fact that our friend will not die  - or be permanently harmed - by his illness.

In fact, this disease is not a disease at all.

This is the cure.

* * * * *

My friend is dope sick.

Heroin has ruled his life for the past decade and a half. Though he's made some major strides toward sobriety in the past couple years, he still struggles. And the past six weeks have been a nightmare of nonstop smoking.

So a few days ago, he decided to that the only way to put an end to this run was to detox.

Over the years, my friend has gone through many episodes of detox - the fancy kind at a pricey rehab center as well as the kind where you're in jail - and he knew exactly what he was up against. His friends, who are recovered addicts themselves and have all gone through this same hell, knew what they were getting into, and they know what they're doing.

Though my friend has told me many stories about his detox adventures, this is my first rodeo.

What I've gained from the experience so far is this:

Heroin is evil. Sure, when you're high, heroin takes away your pain and makes you feel, as my friend always says, perfect. But in the end, heroin all but destroys you. And that's if you're lucky to not overdose.

More than ever, I truly believe that anyone who uses heroin must be in so much physical, mental or spiritual pain that they are willing to take the black, soul-sucking, deep-pit-of-hell bad of heroin with the momentary flash of good.

People who use heroin deserves our compassion and support. Not our judgment and disapproval.

* * * * *

I saw my friend again today, and it looks like he's past the worst of it. He's still a ways from getting back on his feet, but he slept twelve hours last night and feels somewhat human again.

We are all greatly relieved.

I'd like to think that my chocolate chip cookies may have helped.