For Mothers in the Middle of the Ocean

Triolet for Mothers in the Middle of the Ocean

A pod of sperm whales held a birthing mother to the surface

Why is this a surprise? All mammals breathe gaseous air

And Jane Goodall would tell you that animals understand love’s purpose

A pod of sperm whales held a birthing mother to the surface

How many times have women cradled me in service

Humans can’t believe animals love and care

A pod of sperm whales held a birthing mother to the surface

All mammals breathe gaseous air

Entitled to Balance

I made small talk with a nurse while sitting in a waiting room. The nurse taught nursing at the University of Colorado, but was retiring early. She couldn’t stomach teaching another semester. I could have stopped her right there, I knew what she was going to say.

According to her, students have too ‘healthy’ of a sense of work/life balance. She said that students were more interested in when they would get a coffee break and if they could take it sooner rather than later. Interesting. Believe me, I know what she was trying to say, but I have a wish for us all to be entitled. And as for that balance, good god, I love that ‘kids these days’ believe their lives are about more than the slog. 

And, I know hard work; I come from a lineage of women who earned their worth every day. My Grandma Betty came to the US from Ireland with eight sisters and brothers. When her parents both died, Betty became their surrogate Mother and Father. It didn’t matter that they didn’t have a penny, and it was the great depression; she made sure each of her siblings wore clothes that were freshly ironed and mended. 

Once when I was eight, I went to stay at my Grandma Betty’s. In the middle of the night, her bathroom leaked into the kitchen, and the ceiling collapsed. At the same time, she was fighting shingles on her back that made her clench her teeth and breathe as if giving birth. When I woke up, there was no evidence of the leak, and she hadn't asked anyone for help. Betty stayed up all night saying, “I didn’t want you to see the kitchen looking like that.”

Grandma would take all the grandkids for a week or two over the summer; parents were optional. She’d cook three square meals for her squadron of grandkids as we played outside. We were always swimming, and when we weren’t swimming, we were begging an adult to take us out on the boat. Grandma never swam, and hardly ever rode in the boat. She was always back at the house cooking, cleaning, and planning. Her vacation home was a vacation for everyone but her. I can’t remember her ever sitting back in her chair to read a magazine or watch a show. Betty had an inner drive to get ahead; she never got caught flat-footed by the tidal wave of chores. It was a rare moment when she’d call to us, “Get in the boat, I’m taking you all to Ben Franklin’s.” I don’t remember what preempted this need to get the house free from little kids. But free the house she did.

Five or more of my cousins, my sister, and I would throw a t-shirt over our swimsuits and jump in the speedboat. Grandma would drive across the water, her wrinkles deeply embedded in her forehead and cheeks, so much so that her face looked expressionless, like a mountainous land. Once docked, we’d skip and run ahead. My cousins always screamed about something that I wouldn’t understand, like how great a phosphate was, until I tried it. Now and then, Grandma would shush us or grab one of our hands, usually mine.

The line of us — at least six little girls and one boy — was something people must have commented on as the bell jingled and we entered the quiet of Ben Franklin’s. The sweet mixed with mothball smell was always so strong that it could knock me over. Grandma would give us each a few crisp dollars. The choices were endless and important. This place was exotic.

Grandma would wait for the last of us to finish our purchases, then herd us over to the lunch counter of the local pharmacy. She’d sit with us in a long line overlooking the main street and have her cigarette, poised at the tips of her fingers. The smoke danced around her hand; this was her one moment of glamor.

Her lake house was a two-story, the bottom half air-conditioned, and the top — including her kitchen and bedroom — could be cooled only by the Iowa breeze. One day, a storm pelted the house, and rain came down so hard that the lake, only a few feet from our door, was gone. We reveled in the weather: have you ever swum and not known where the air begins?

That night I was supposed to be asleep, but I snuck up, and found Grandma sitting on the porch. Talking was impossible over the ping of rain. And so, I sat next to her in her cotton nightgown, snuggled into the curve of her arm, and the two of us listened until the melody became a sound united in our dreams.

I hope that the next generation gets to listen to the ping of rain more than the generation before. Let them snuggle up with their entitlement and hold the ones they love.