Confessions of Motherhood

I had a Mother’s Day get-together with 5 of my kids at Alden and Sinda’s house. We had great food, fun conversation, a push-up competition and an arm-wrestling competition. I will be doing push-ups for the next month until we reconvene. I can’t let all those much-younger-than-me people get too far ahead of me. Nathan (14), Joy (10), and Sam (6) were unstoppable, wrestling, laughing, doing their little competitions, etc. for over an hour. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Nathan behave that way. Before his open heart surgery (last October), such things were not in the realm of possibility. It was very heart-warming to see him just be able to play with the little kids, like a normal boy. My other three kids are in Missouri (Richard and Melody are visiting Spencer) and they called me on the phone.

I love being a mother but I have to say that I have gotten better at enjoying it over the years. I loved the boys (first four, who arrived in a 6 ½ year span) but I was so overwhelmed with taking care of and keeping up with them that I wasn’t having fun. I loved them to pieces but it wasn’t always easy to like the job of being their mom. They were busy, loud, and broke everything. I think I was mystified by the sheer level of testosterone bouncing off the walls. Now I can just laugh when Sam behaves like a typical boy because I know what he will become one day. I can see the young adult he will be after watching the others reach adulthood. Now I see that those little-boy, aggressive impulses are desirable qualities for a husband and father to possess, in order to have the drive to protect and provide for a family. But when they are exhibited by a stubborn, pint-sized boy, it’s hard to have perspective. And I TOTALLY didn’t know about the payoff that was coming – daughters-in-law and grandchildren! Of course, in theory, I did; but really, wasn’t I ALWAYS going to be 20-something years old? What’s with this old body I’m stuck in??

Melody (my 17 year old daughter) sent me her journal-like description of the Greyhound Bus ride to Missouri with her oldest brother, Richard. Richard just graduated from college and has a month of down time before starting a job so he decided to go visit the place where he grew up (southwestern Missouri). I am including it below and have resisted the urge to edit it. It’s long so feel free to skim or not read it. The main reason I am including it is because I love what her writing reveals about her observant, clever personality and way with words. I love the monikers she gives people like Cowboy Guy and Crabby Driver. She and I need to figure out a way to make our living being writers. :-) FYI, to clarify her comments about the humidity, she was born in Missouri and lived there until she was 11 years old. I actually miss it and wish to be there and experience it myself!

Dear Mom,

All is well. We are safe. The trip was interesting, if nothing else. We waited a good hour before the bus even got to the 'station' [read: dirty gas joint where we sat on the cold cement outside in the pre-dawn chill{read: I went inside, Richard stayed out and watched the bags}] Anyways, we watched and waited.

There was also a cowboy...guy...kid...thing. You know those people who wear too-tight jeans, a tank top in freezing Utah morning weather, and cowboy hats? No? Well, that was what kind of person it was. Awkward.

So, needless to say, we were lagging a dreaded hour that would throw the rest of the day/trip out of sync. Richard and I were a little surprised when the bus finally did come and it was hardly full. A sparse eight or nine other people littered the rows, not including us and Cowboy Guy. Each row was two seats. Richard took one and I slipped into the one behind him. I whipped out my diary and scribbled a few notes that consisted of this:

May 5, 2011

Start: Provo 8: 36 A.M.
Air smelled like a rough mixture of cherry chap stick and cigarette smoke. In the earliest hours the customers were getting their smokes, energy drinks or coffee. One huge man walked in wearing an old brown leather coat. It took me a minute to identify the little twitching head and bulging body as a chihuahua squished in the refines of the coat. There was also the buff cowboy-hat wearing kid in a sleeveless tank top that liked to smoke, and wearing tight pants. And, as Richard pointed out, our first driver looks like Will Ferrel. There's also mushed mint gum in the window sills and frayed retro eighties seat covers. It sort of feels like Old puked in here and nobody bothered to clean up afterwards. [End]

But after that, I was unconscious before we got out of the Provo area, if my memory is correct. Which it NEVER is, so I should throw that saying out all together. Anyways. I woke up next in Green River, UT. The bus split for a fifteen minute break, and I scribbled down some more when I returned to the bus.

Green River, UT 11: 52 A.M.

It honestly didn't look all that promising . The motels had names like Budget Inn Motel and thatched roofs. And the majority of the gas station's merchandise consisted of hardware supplies and on-the-go urinals. (Plus a wagon literally sitting on the roof.) But I can say something about their bathrooms. Clean as can be, slick, shiny, blessedly automated machines! I was wonderfully surprised; also, as the only girl on the bus, I had it all to myself.

P.S. Cowboy has managed to strip to an even tighter tank-top. Somehow. I'm scared as to how much further it'll [his state of undress] progress as the hours go on. [End]

I was awake at this point, and knew we were running behind. Our bus was supposed to arrive in Grand Junction around twelve thirty-five. There was no way that was happening. We were late, but, by some odd fluke, the bus hadn't left yet, and Richard and I got on just as it was about to. We slept, curled up on the not-so ragged seats (the second bus was an upgrade; no gum-glued seats) Cowboy Guy was left somewhere in Grand Junction, CO never to be seen by us again. And we drove for something like five hours, arriving in Denver at six thirty-two. Three minutes before our next bus was set to depart. Our first assumption was that we would be fine--the last bus had waited over an hour, five minutes to grab our bags would be no biggie. But, no. We had to wait for the next bus to come through, something like an hour. I could see the frustration in Richard's eyes. Muttering about how train systems in Europe were so much more dependable.

Which is probably true.

People who ride the bus are quite...colorful. Or, as Richard put it, the lowliest of society. Something like that. I'm paraphrasing here. The people on the bus didn't seem too hesitant on sharing at all. There were a lot of, "Hey, can you watch my bag,"s and "Do you know when this bus is leaving?" and other such things. I'm pretty sure I overheard more than one fellow bus patron spilling out their life story. Whether anyone wanted to hear it or not.

We eventually grabbed a bus over an hour late, but we were counting on our three hour layover in Kansas City to absorb most of it. Or we hoped it would. From Denver to Kansas it was supposed to be something like a good twelve hours. Eight forty five to eight forty five, at the rate we were going. So we settled in, knowing it would be an all-nighter, and hoping we would be able to snag our own rows. Which didn't happen. We were almost jammed packed, every row taken, nearly every seat full. Combined loud, stuffy, gritty and you'll get a lonnnggg night. However, some moron opened a hatch on the top of the bus, only a few seats ahead of where Richard and I were squished in. Which was nice for the first thirty minutes while we sluggishly made our way the our freeway of choice. It was when the sun was down and we really started going that the wind started burning eyes and freezing off extremities. And that hatch wasn't closing until we stopped, which, by the unusually crabby driver's ruling, wasn't until our next scheduled stop. Thanks to our lovely delay, that wasn't until a bit after one in the morning. Until then, we huddled in and tried not to be totally miserable. But were anyways.

After we finally, FINALLY stopped and fixed the hatch Richard was out. Like a light. I, however, got to watch the sun rise over a fog laden Kansas. Probably because I was STILL cold. Crabby Driver had deemed the AC necessary, and it just so happened to be blowing right in my face. I probably got all of three to four hours of sleep. The sunrise was pretty though--a fiery peach-colored ball slinking over the vibrantly green hills. Plus the fog and no sound beyond the dull hum of the bus. It was cool.

Beyond that, it was smooth sailing. Besides the occasional toothless bag carrier rambling at you--I think he was chastising, but I can't say for sure--we hopped buses from Kansas to Bolivar, MO. The ride consisted of my own row, lots of sleep, and listening to two of the most authentic hillbilly conversations I will EVER witness. Ever. And doing crossword puzzles over the shoulder of a fellow rider.

Michelle and Spencer are car-less, as ever. Richard says he was surprised at how easy going I was on the bus. I wasn't really ever scared ever, and I guess he wasn't expecting that. It is HUMID. As first it was a bit of a shock; I would only be outside for a minimal amount of time but I would return with my shirt thoroughly stuck to my skin. However, eleven years of conditioning doesn't really go away that easily, and I quickly adapted. It's no longer a shock, albeit slightly uncomfortable. The air has a vibrant smell to it as well. You can tell it's clean. Richard loves the air; sometimes, when he's not in danger of sweating out his water supply, he'll go out and sit out on the front porch, pet skittish Shasta, and do nothing.

Love, Melody