Mothers & Daughters
It's around 7:10 this Monday morning and I've been up since 3:30, which sounds like a crazy time but if I want to see my husband I've adjusted my schedule to his through the years. He's always worked early hours. I've grown accustomed to it myself...my favorite hours of the day are those before the sun comes up. As I sit doing my devotions I can hear the crickets even when the doors and windows are closed. And train whistles. I love train whistles and fog horns. I used to live two blocks in from the I-5 freeway when I was a teenager and I grew accustomed to the sound of traffic. It was never intrusive with the houses across the street muting it...at night it would soothe me to sleep. As I'd go to sleep at night I even liked the sound of the air brakes on the big semis shifting down as they drove the gentle slope of the highway down to the Interstate Bridge. What I loved best, tho, was the mournful sound of the fog horns on the Columbia River in the wee hours of the morning. It would always give me the funniest feeling in the pit of my stomach, like I was the only person alive in the world. I often wondered if others were awake and listening, too. Insomniacs, probably. But insomniacs hear things we never hear during the brightness and busyness of 'normal' people's days. This I know by experience at different phases of my life.
I mean, it's not even 7:30 and I've already done two loads of laundry and made a potato salad that's chilling in the refrigerator for dinner tonight. I've taken apart all the fans in the house and cleaned them, as well as the blades of the ceiling fan in my husband's den. And the bed is made.
I have a real love/hate relationship with bed-making. When I was 10 years old my mother decided it was time to teach me how to strip down a bed and make it again with fresh linen. I wanted no part of it. I was a tomboy. I had better things to do outside and everyone was waiting for me to come out and play, I told her. "Fine," my mom said, "but not until you've made your bed." She had been taught by my dad to make beds military-style and this is what she set out to do with me. First she stripped the bed down, then demonstrated how to put the sheets and blankets on, tucking in the corners with military precision. The pillows went on at the head of the bed, all plumped and lined up. You could have easily bounced a quarter on the surface of that one. Next, she stripped it down again, told me, "Your turn", and walked out and left me alone. Well, that looked easy enough. I started putting all the linen on and maybe 15 minutes later I was satisfied with what I'd done. I went out of the bedroom, found my mom, and proudly showed her what I'd accomplished. Which wasn't much...sheets and blankets haphazardly drifting corners down to the floor. Pillows tossed at the top of the bed. "Nope, not good enough," she told me, and ripped everything off. "Do it again." And she left me alone.
Oh my, was I mad.
This went on for hours, or so it seemed. What a battle of wills. My mother grew so exasperated with me she even told me, "If you ever have a daughter, I hope she's twice as stubborn as you are!!"
But...finally. Success, after tons of tears and almost hating her by the end of it all.
And yet...my mother taught me how to make a beautiful bed, and I even take a little pride in how it looks by the time I'm done making it each morning. And every time I make a bed...every time...53 years later in my lifetime so far...I think of how determined I was to get outside to play, and how determined my mother was that I wasn't going until I'd learned what she'd set out to teach me. I learned, and it pains me to admit what a brat I was that morning. My mom was not an affectionate person at all, but her "Good job!" at my last attempt felt as good as any hug could have.
Isn't it funny, how that memory has never faded away. But in the full scope of life, it also taught me how good it feels to do a task and do it well in school, in the working world...wherever. No sloughing off...no half-done 'ok' job.
If you're going to do something, do it right the first time. And I owe that lesson to my mom.
I mean, it's not even 7:30 and I've already done two loads of laundry and made a potato salad that's chilling in the refrigerator for dinner tonight. I've taken apart all the fans in the house and cleaned them, as well as the blades of the ceiling fan in my husband's den. And the bed is made.
I have a real love/hate relationship with bed-making. When I was 10 years old my mother decided it was time to teach me how to strip down a bed and make it again with fresh linen. I wanted no part of it. I was a tomboy. I had better things to do outside and everyone was waiting for me to come out and play, I told her. "Fine," my mom said, "but not until you've made your bed." She had been taught by my dad to make beds military-style and this is what she set out to do with me. First she stripped the bed down, then demonstrated how to put the sheets and blankets on, tucking in the corners with military precision. The pillows went on at the head of the bed, all plumped and lined up. You could have easily bounced a quarter on the surface of that one. Next, she stripped it down again, told me, "Your turn", and walked out and left me alone. Well, that looked easy enough. I started putting all the linen on and maybe 15 minutes later I was satisfied with what I'd done. I went out of the bedroom, found my mom, and proudly showed her what I'd accomplished. Which wasn't much...sheets and blankets haphazardly drifting corners down to the floor. Pillows tossed at the top of the bed. "Nope, not good enough," she told me, and ripped everything off. "Do it again." And she left me alone.
Oh my, was I mad.
This went on for hours, or so it seemed. What a battle of wills. My mother grew so exasperated with me she even told me, "If you ever have a daughter, I hope she's twice as stubborn as you are!!"
But...finally. Success, after tons of tears and almost hating her by the end of it all.
And yet...my mother taught me how to make a beautiful bed, and I even take a little pride in how it looks by the time I'm done making it each morning. And every time I make a bed...every time...53 years later in my lifetime so far...I think of how determined I was to get outside to play, and how determined my mother was that I wasn't going until I'd learned what she'd set out to teach me. I learned, and it pains me to admit what a brat I was that morning. My mom was not an affectionate person at all, but her "Good job!" at my last attempt felt as good as any hug could have.
Isn't it funny, how that memory has never faded away. But in the full scope of life, it also taught me how good it feels to do a task and do it well in school, in the working world...wherever. No sloughing off...no half-done 'ok' job.
If you're going to do something, do it right the first time. And I owe that lesson to my mom.
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