Marie Taylor, Ink

With Mother’s Day near, I have been thinking about the nature of parental love. It seems to be a downward moving emotion, from parent to child.  Like water, parental love flows without effort, filling up the low places and finding its way by instinct; like gravity, it is undeniable; like generosity, it is abundant. 

It is in the loving and caring for our children that we repay the debt we owe our own parents for their care.  It is only when we feel the love we have for our children that we begin to realize the depth of the love our parents had for us.  Down through the generations, we pass on this love.

I had my first son, Rob, when I was 22 years old. He was born near midnight on a Thursday. I had been in and out of labor for a day and a half when they finally induced labor, put me under and drew him out.  They later placed a tightly wrapped bundle in my arms and I was in awe of this small stranger.

I had no mothering experience; I was unfit for this job. Except for a few isolated instances, I had never even held a baby in my arms, let alone babysat or changed diapers. I had little understanding of the depth of responsibility I had so blithely undertaken. It was Rob who taught me how to be a mother.

It was Rob who had colic and cried every afternoon for months; who refused to take naps. It was Rob who defied me and whom I spanked to my later shame. It was Rob who demanded my attention when I was busy and who refused to talk to me when his father left us because he thought I had sent him away. 

This small boy stole into this shallow heart of mine and forced it to grow. By the time my second child was born a few years later, I had already been broken in. I had been made malleable and ready for service.

Rob was always good in school; a high achiever. When it was time for college, he worked the midnight shift at a 7-11, as a clerk in a computer store, as a butcher in a market.  He bought a car, his books, and his clothes.  He learned to work hard and he worked long, going from school to work to bed to school. 

He finished college, got a job and married a woman who was a wonderful partner and mother to his children. He was what they call a good provider, a good man.  He was a son anyone would be proud to call their own. He had become the father he should have had, and his children loved him.

Rob was 43 when he developed cancer and after a valiant struggle, he left us to embark on a new adventure. His passing changed all of our lives. On this Mother’s Day, there is a kiss on the cheek I will miss and a face I wish I could see once more.