Mothers Know Best: A Mother's Day Edition

When I was born, while my mother was still in the hospital, a Special Transmitter was surgically inserted into her. This Special Transmitter is a secret among all mothers the world over. No one except other mothers get to know about it.

They call it Mother’s Intuition. And it can be as powerful as God.

When I was young, I used to imagine the ceremonial swearing in of new mothers. Someone important, who vaguely resembled my image of God, would swear my mother in. She would raise her right arm and swear to protect me. This was usually followed by something like, “I swear to know the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, no matter what my kid tries to tell me, so help me God.” At this point, God would agree to let her know, via the Special Transmitter, exactly when, where, and why her kid was lying. The appropriate punishment for the lying child was left up to the mother. That the benefit part of being a mom.

Over the years, as I baby-sat, taught swimming lessons, and entered the field of education, I began to understand that sometimes children are just so transparent that it doesn’t take any special transmitter to know when they are lying. But there have been enough experiences in my own life when my mother has amazed me that I have no doubt that Mother’s Intuition is the most powerful weapon in the world.

Like in eleventh grade, after we’d had a big fight and she warned me not to leave the house. But I did, and a car accident ensued. Mother knew best.

Like the day after I moved to college and couldn’t get my long distance calling to work. There was no doubt in my mind: If I don’t talk to her right now, I’ll just die! … and the phone rang. Mother’s intuition.

Like spring break of my senior year of college. “Bring home your suit just in case. You never know who may call for an interview!” “Mom,” I sighed patiently, “nothing’s going to happen in five days. I’m not that lucky.” But I know better than to ignore Mother’s Intuition and brought it home anyway, and when the phone call came for an interview, I was barely even surprised. After all, mothers know best.

Like when she said, “I just know if you can get an interview, you’ll get the job.” “But I don’t have that great of a feeling about it. I think he’s just calling me to tell me they hired someone else.” “If you can get an interview, you’ll get the job.” Mother knew best.

I was never one of those teenagers who took my mother for granted. I knew I had a great one. My friends envied me because she was so great. But it doesn’t cease to amaze me that even despite that, the older I get, the more I realize that even in the smallest matters, my mom always knows best.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mum. You’re the best…but then, if you know anything, you already know that.

Growing Up, Growing Older

I graduate from college the same month Baby Brother turned sixteen. The previous December when I had gone home for winter break, I was shocked and amazed to find out he was now taller than I was. Over spring break the following March, we went a movie together. It was the first time we actually went—together, and not as Sister and Her Younger Brother.

That same vacation, he offered me some advice on what to do when I started teaching ninth grade. He brought home his binder full of assignments and allowed me to look through them. He shared with me what he liked (“I really liked making a mobile based on a book I read. I’d show it to you, Rix, but it’s in my locker.”) and what he disliked. The amazing part of all of this was what he said was … useful. I wasn’t just humoring him, I was listening to him.

And then it occurred to me that I left home four years ago and have missed a major chunk of his life. I missed his first middle school dance. I missed when he sprained his ankle (both times). I missed when he got his driver’s permit. I missed his first day of high school. I missed the day he found out he got a part in the play.

I find myself wishing I wasn’t quite so much older than he is. This way, I think wistfully, I’d be around for important stuff. Like after he sprained his ankle and he and Dad drove to the hospital watching Mom following them in the rearview, giggling as she played with her hair—the nervous tic she can’t control when she’s worried. Or getting to stay the whole weekend and having another chance to see him in his first play after he got sick the night I came home specially to see it.

So I tell myself to think of the pros of being so many years older. What are the good things?

And then I see my six-year-old self looking down at his dark pink face in the hospital. I remember how I gloated to my young self because I got to hold his head(!) while Tara had to hold his feet because I was so much older. I remember how, after he got lost at the mall, he came running to me because I was safe, I was comfort, I was special.

What are the good things?

I remember marveling with my best friend that he’s getting so old and he’s looking so grown-up. I remember playing the “Who’s the nicest, sweetest, most genuinely caring person you know?” game with Tara, and even more clearly, I remember how we came up with the same answer.

And I think to myself I wouldn’t trade that fading, itty-bitty, barely-there memory of a newborn Brennan in the hospital for a hundred other memories.

What are the good things?

Oh, everything.

Happy birthday to my baby brother. May all your wishes come true.