It’s a pleasure to introduce you to Lissa who’s sharing her unique journey through motherhood as part of our month-long guest post series, Special Mamas. Lissa and her husband left the comfort and familiarity of their home in Vermont for a life of adventure and uncertainty in New Zealand. Did I mention that they made the move shortly after their son turned one? Did I mention that they knew no one in New Zealand when they moved there? Lissa is brave, delightful, thoughtful, intelligent and insightful. We’ve developed a lovely friendship online, and today, it’s an honor to share her adventures in mothering abroad. Enjoy, friends! Lissa’s story is equal parts interesting, exhilarating and inspiring.

Two years ago, my husband and I decided to leave our home in Vermont for a life-changing adventure. My husband, who was self-employed, had a job offer in New Zealand and the timing seemed perfect… except, we had just had a baby.

Our son was born in 2012 and at that time, I was going back to work and graduate school, while attempting to figure out the new mama thing. Trying to balance it all was not working and I didn’t have the energy to try to fake it. So we decided New Zealand was the place for both of us to achieve our dreams— for him to work for a dream company and for me to be able to stay at home with our son while focusing on my writing.

Six weeks after my husband accepted the job, not just our house was sold, but also our two cars and several of our belongings. The rest was tightly packed into a shipping container for the three-month sail down under. For the next few months, everything we needed was found in three large suitcases. Hard, yet through it all I was confident about this next step in life.

Hauling our bags, a stroller, a pack and play, a car seat, a guitar, a dog crate, and a dog around the airport and later, the train stations, our adventure had been birthed. On the 12-hour flight to New Zealand from Los Angeles, our son who had just turned one, slept most of the way (I would later discover that traveling that far with a two-year-old is much more difficult).

Looking back on that moment, there was a tremendous amount of uncertainty surrounding the transition…but I didn’t notice. Always a mama first, I was too focused on making sure my son’s daily needs were met. I was diligent with his routine. I had to stay in the present moment with only minimal planning for flights, taxis, and train schedules. If I had thought any further ahead than getting my son to sleep at his usual times, I’m sure it would have got the best of me. My perseverance lied in the certainty that we were doing the right thing for our family and that this opportunity was something we couldn’t disregard.

It was July when we arrived in New Zealand, the middle of winter. Getting used to the ‘seasons’ has been an adjustment. Winter means rain and strong wind, and the feeling like snow is imminent. When no white falls on the ground, the Minnesota girl in me gets homesick. I’ve no complaints about Christmas at the beach, but it does make me homesick in a different way. Still, New Zealand is absolutely breathtaking. We were overjoyed to tears on our train ride from Auckland to Wellington.

The first major task in our new country was to find a house to rent. We did, but it was bone-chilling cold. No insulation, lots of windows, but single pane. The first night in our rental, there was a huge storm with southerly winds off Antarctica whistling straight through our house. I had to dress my son in sweaters and three pairs of pants for the night. The heat from the wood stove was sucked straight out through the gaps in the windows and walls. Housing in New Zealand is, for lack of a better word, depressing.

On top of that, within our first month of arriving, New Zealand had a string of rather large earthquakes. There was a 6.5 magnitude quake that made our abode feel like a bouncy house at a carnival. Luckily, the house structure consisted of wood, which sways instead of collapses. Even in the moment of the quake, the three of us huddling in the doorway on our knees, waiting for the amusement park fun to stop churning our stomachs, I didn’t doubt our decision to move. I certainly complained, but I didn’t doubt.

Life seemed to get easier as we, and the earth, became more settled. I enrolled our boy in swim classes, took him to playgroups, explored the botanical garden, and met several other women who graciously took me under their wing. Without those women, I don’t think I could have made it as long as I have here. They are some of the truest, most genuine women I’ve ever met. Of course there are unkind people everywhere, but I feel blessed that I have found my tribe.

As much as I love the country and the people, the ‘adventure’ hasn’t been easy. In my son’s first two years of life, I’ve not questioned my role as mama. Motherhood was something I always wanted to experience. Through all of the changes we’ve endured thus far during his existence, not once did I question if I was doing this well. I followed and trusted my instincts. I knew that I was a good mama. I knew that God gave me a gift. Just like the certainty surrounding our move, I was confident as a mom.

But now the “trying twos” stage has shaken our home. Our boy has realized he’s separate from us and with that independence comes very loud, unwavering opinions. And no matter how many times I remind myself that a two-year-old having tantrums is expected as a part of their development, these tantrums wear me down.

Through all that we’ve faced in our move over here: the awful housing, driving on the left side, a lease that favors the landlord, loved ones deaths, the endless homesickness, the earthquakes, the severe wind, the mold, the rats, the sheer loneliness, and the tarantula-like spiders; nothing makes me feel more uncertain than when my boy is kicking and screaming.

During those fits of throwing toys, I long for something comfortable— something familiar, so that I don’t feel as though I am entirely alone. Social media has become a big part of our lives. I’m ashamed to admit that, but if it weren’t for the Internet, I don’t think I would feel as connected as I do to my friends and family across the Pacific. I’ve come to depend on logging in to inform me of what’s happening in my loved one’s lives. No one emails any more and certainly no one calls. But I don’t think my family and friends realize how much it means to me when one of them ‘likes’ a post of mine or writes a comment on a picture. To me, it’s the equivalent of them checking in on us down here. It took me awhile to get used to the idea that any big event in our loved ones lives would be learned via the Internet, but now I’m grateful to have that connection.

My son has had to form his relationships with his grandparents through the computer. I’m the first to protest and say that’s unhealthy, but I’ve been amazed at how much of a bond he has formed with them that way. Obviously, it helps that he has spent time with them and gets along with them in person, but now he tells me to “go away” when my parents are on Skype, so that he can have them all to himself. It’s different, and it’s our life now.

When we decided to trade in our life of comfort for a life of adventure, what I didn’t think through was that my husband and I were already on an adventure in parenting. People gave us advice before we moved, and we researched and made lists to help us prepare. But what no one told us was just how knackered we would be. Sure, when you have a baby, everyone knows sleep is absent, but no one explained that moving halfway around the world from your dear ones, with a toddler, would make every bone in your body beat from exhaustion. There is never a break.

When we pictured our move here, we imagined exploring the islands and maybe a trip to Asia. But my husband and I are lucky if we have one date night a year. Everything is that much harder. We make it a point to be sure to have dinner together every night as a family. That might seem odd to some, but it’s a ritual that has become important to us. The three of us are really all we have down here.

With all that said, and with tears in my eyes as I write, I don’t regret for one second that we made this move. It has shaped us for the better and my son has had rich experiences already. One of my son’s favorite birds is a Kiwi that he visits up close at the local zoo. He has pure joy on his face when pat-patting a native Pohukatawa tree and his playgroup consists of friends from all over the world.

As we near the end of our second year here, however, there are moments when I feel utterly broken. All my energy goes into taking care of our son and finding my way through the uncertainty of not only motherhood, but also a new country.

While we can’t predict how long we’ll be able to live here in Godzone, for now we’ve traded our familiarity for affordable health care, barefoot walks, jaw-dropping landscape at every turn, and friends who we love like family. Our adventure has become our life. And with everything in life, even in the uncertain moments, I trust that love will be there near and far.

Lissa

Lissa Waller Carlino is originally from Minnesota where she grew up performing in local and professional theatre. She moved to Vermont in 2004 where she met her husband and the two have been married for seven years. They have an almost three-year-old son and now live in Wellington, New Zealand. Lissa enjoys writing Women’s Fiction and is currently on the quest for publication of her first novel. She writes a personal blog called “Where’s Joe Wellington?” that is a true story of her search for a long-lost Kiwi friend and also chronicles life in New Zealand. To hear more of Lissa’s story, you can find her blog at whereisjoewellington.blogspot.com, LIKE her Facebook blog page at facebook.com/whereisjoewellington, follow her on Twitter @EWallerCarlino, or subscribe to her blog.

 

This post is part of a month-long guest post series titled Special Mamas. The series runs all May and is in honor of moms who have unique journeys to and through motherhood. To read all 13 posts in the Special Mamas series, CLICK HERE and you’ll be directed to the introductory post. At the bottom of the post, you’ll find all guest posts listed and linked for easy reading!

 

It’s a pleasure to introduce you to Paula who’s sharing her unique journey through motherhood as part of our month-long guest post series, Special Mamas. Paula and I grew up together. We were in Girl Scouts, piano lessons, band, choir and musicals together. We enjoyed prom together. Our last names started with the same letter, so even our lockers were together. I guess you could say we did life together for many years! Paula is now a mom of two, and works full-time as a Minister with Children, Youth and Families. Today, she’s sharing her experience as a woman who’s chosen to maintain full-time employment in the midst of motherhood. Her decision has, at times, been met with shock and disapproval, but she’s also experienced deep fulfillment in her role as Reverend Paula. Please extend a warm welcome to Paula. I think you’ll find her post interesting, enjoyable and easy to read!

I have worked a professional full-time job for most of the eleven years I have been a mother.

Shortly after graduating from college, I enrolled in graduate school. I studied at Drew Theological School to get my Master of Divinity with the goal of becoming an ordained minister in the United Methodist Church. In March of 2004, my first child was born and I was commissioned into ministry just a few months later. While I took a standard maternity leave, I never considered staying home with my child would be my only job. My decision to return to work was met with shock and disapproval by more people than I anticipated. I was asked questions like “don’t you want to be with your child?” or “how can you leave such a young baby in a strange daycare?” or “why not work part-time?” or worst of all “if you didn’t want to be a mom, why did you have children?”

Sometimes the things other moms didn’t say were even worse. My first experience in ECFE was with a group of moms and their 3-6 month olds. I had returned to work when I started attending the class. I picked up my son from daycare and drove to our afternoon ECFE class wearing my typical business attire. The other moms were dressed in neatly coordinated and very washable outfits. During circle time, we were asked to share about our daily routines. When I said I worked full-time, there was an audible gasp in the room. Somehow there was shame in my choice…that I couldn’t or wouldn’t be an acceptable mother to this child.

As a privileged, white, middle-class woman, I had a choice. Perhaps that is why other women (and some men) were so hard on me about going back to work. I am aware that many women and families have no choice. However, I can’t help but wonder if a woman who supports her family on a single income might experience similar shame in her situation. I can’t help but wonder what kind of harm that does to a woman and her sense of motherhood. I was devastated to know that other moms thought I was somehow hurting my children by working full-time. With love and support from family and friends, my choice to remain in church ministry has been rewarding and fulfilling to both me and my children.

I now have two amazing children. Elliot is 11 and Sydney is 9. I love my children to the moon and back and like any mom, I will do everything in my power to protect and nurture them. My job can be stressful and frustrating, but the journey has been rich. I have served four different faith communities and each community has embraced my family. I am blessed to have a vocation with extremely flexible hours that allow me to schedule around doctors appointments, school conferences and a host of extracurricular activities. Yes, I will confess that sometimes my work ends up being first. When I catch myself in that place, I apologize to my children and I pray that they can both forgive and understand.

I believe that children need a variety of trusted adults in their lives to thrive into adulthood. Serving in a church blesses me with a network of men and women who love my children unconditionally. When I am leading worship, I look out and see my children sitting with their adult friends. When I am teaching at youth group, I look around and see my children sitting side by side with teenagers who not only tolerate their presence, but also engage them in conversation. When I have to stay at church for an evening meeting, my church family reaches out to help care for my children so they can get their homework done and into bed at a reasonable time. My children know people of all ages at their church and that makes my heart swell with pride. Their lives are richer and more diverse because of my choice to work.

My choice to work full-time is just that…a choice. My choice is not better or worse than a parent who chooses to stay at home with their children. Don’t judge me because I choose differently than you. Instead, let’s celebrate that it takes a village to raise our children, and that we need parents at home and parents in the work force.

Paula

This post is part of a month-long guest post series titled Special Mamas. The series runs all May and is in honor of moms who have unique journeys to and through motherhood. To read all 13 posts in the Special Mamas series, CLICK HERE and you’ll be directed to the introductory post. At the bottom of the post, you’ll find all guest posts listed and linked for easy reading!

Today, it’s an honor to introduce you to Jessica who’s sharing her unique journey to and through motherhood as part of our month-long guest post series, Special Mamas. Jessica has been grieving the death of her mom for nearly two decades. She’s a wife and mama of little ones now, but her mama-less heart still aches for the everyday presence only a mom can fill. I had the great privilege of meeting Jessica at a writing conference last fall, and have since made it very clear to her that I hope our paths keep on crossing for many years to come. Jessica is a beautiful writer with a beautiful story and a huge heart. Please extend a warm welcome to my writing sister, Jessica. 

It frightened me how the grief choked me to my core – 38 weeks pregnant, lying on my bed fending off a cold and all the questions rolling around in my brain. Sobs rocked my body and threatened to crack me down the middle.

My husband tenderly asked me what was the matter and after what felt like a short eternity of tear filled gasps I managed to lisp out, “I just miss my mom so much. I want her to be here to take care of me.”

My mom didn’t die last year. No, she died when I was twelve. I’ll be thirty-one in two weeks.

We never stop needing our moms. We just don’t. I’ve ridden the waves of grief for nearly two decades now and I can promise you that nearly every day I have found a reason to need my mama.

Now to be fair there are a dozen women who have come alongside my motherless heart and loved me well. My mother-in-love is one of these dear women and I never want her to think otherwise. She is kind and dear and medicine for my mama-less heart.

The tangible loss of a biological mother? It’s like having the umbilical cord cut all over again, but this time you feel it and it drains you hollow in all the mother needy places.

The grief isn’t always so heavy. No, grief finds you in weakness. It finds you when insecurity hits and it makes you feel like half a person, less than a woman, a mother with a limp. It makes you doubt your ability to mother well.

Lisa-Jo Baker writes often about children walking around “like so much eternity with skin on” and that is true to be sure. But mamas, we love like eternity with skin on and when we leave it can feel as if the very presence of love leaves along with us. Our work, the mundane of it all, is eternal in the richest most important sort of way.

I see this clear on a Tuesday afternoon. My three year old daughter calls for me from her room as she wipes sleep from her post-nap eyes. I walk into the room and scoot her over to make room for myself and a few quick snuggles before the day moves on.

Out of the blue she asks me if I miss my mom. I’ve talked to her about my mama and explained things in the best way I know how to her little heart and mind, but this question blindsides me. Tears well immediately. She brushes her tiny hand across my cheek and I exhale deep as they fall.

She looks at me with her brown eyes wide with the questioning and tells me words that hitch my breath in my chest, “Don’t worry mama. We’ll find her.” I guess in all my explaining I never realized how confusing the phrase “I lost my mama” could be to a three year old.

The truth is I do find her.

I find her in the strangest places. I find her up around my daughter’s eyes when she laughs. I discover her in myself when I deliver a meal to a friend in need and recognize all the good stuff about my mama replicating itself in me. I glimpse her in the mirror when I put my makeup on and I wrestle the thought of “Am I becoming my mom?”

The mama I lost has become the mother I’ve found by becoming a mother. The doe-eyed daughter with the questions has been my mama come full circle in the sweetest of ways.

What I once thought disqualified me from motherhood, the not having a mama, has become the fire in the furnace of my daily calling. Motherless mothers embrace their calling in a uniquely passionate way. We know the power of motherhood.

In all the mundane places of my day there are pieces of my mother. Her life with Jesus stretching out into eternity and my scraping to find Jesus, or rather allow myself to be found by Jesus, collide in the daily. I wonder how I’ve lived so long without her, but the truth is I have never been without her or Jesus. My knowledge of the two so closely mingled because she knew the power of loving well and giving me heaps of Jesus along the way.

There is a fear that comes with motherhood. It is the fear we will have to leave our loves early. The most frightening part is we have no control over whether or not this happens. We have to love into the darkness, the unknown, the unexpected breaking of living in a fallen world.

We have to do this because someday, most likely, we will leave our children behind. The most important question we can ask ourselves is, “What are we leaving behind for our children?” On those days when your shirt is soaked from the sink full of dishes or the van is full of fast food bags and sweaty jerseys, lean into your calling.

It matters.

Motherhood is not a momentary calling. It is a work of eternal value.

Believe me, I know.

Jessica

Jessica Leigh Hoover is a wife, mama, writer and grace lover. She lives in the hills of North Carolina but has the red dirt of West Africa in her soul. She blogs about her belief that grace is the biggest kind of brave and how life is messy and beautiful in the living, losing and loving. Her favorites are Jesus, family, chocolate, vintage anything and British accents. You can find her on her blog, facebook, twitter, pinterest, and instagram for more.

Jessica & Baby Photo Credit: Sarah Siak Photography

 

This post is part of a month-long guest post series titled Special Mamas. The series runs all May and is in honor of moms who have unique journeys to and through motherhood. To read all 13 posts in the Special Mamas series, CLICK HERE and you’ll be directed to the introductory post. At the bottom of the post, you’ll find all guest posts listed and linked for easy reading!

Today, it’s a pleasure to introduce Jackie who’s sharing her unique journey through motherhood as part of our month-long guest post series, Special Mamas. When I extended an open invitation for guest posts, I assumed this series would attract a certain “type” of person, a certain “type” of writer, a certain “type” of story. So when I received Jackie’s survey indicating interest in writing for the series, I was caught a bit off guard. After a first glance at her story, I wasn’t sure if it was a fit for the Special Mamas series. I promptly contacted Jackie via email, shared my questions and concerns, directed her to my blog vision, and told her I needed a little time to process and make sure this was a fit. Jackie was responsive, respectful, professional, open, honest, and friendly in her communications. Ultimately, I decided that I honored Jackie’s story and was open to her sharing it as part of the series. Having read through Jackie’s post several times now, I suggest you read it slowly and thoughtfully, with an open mind. As far as I can tell, if you miss some key sentences, you may miss the true heart of her story. Jackie’s story may be different than yours. But this is her unique mothering journey, this is her unique experience of life. Please extend a warm welcome to Jackie. 

How many special mamas are there who don’t have children or don’t have their children with them?

All good stories start with a once upon a time, don’t they? This one is no different. Once upon a time, I was in my early 40s and I came to admit that my relationship with my daughters’ father had run its course. Many good stories also have villains, heroines and heroes. This one doesn’t. This one is delivered with acceptance of and for all involved.

Making Difficult Decisions

Divorce can be an emotionally charged and highly volatile place often experienced in pain, despair, fear and distrust. Ours certainly was. Both of us made errors of judgement because of our love for our girls. Ironically, that very strong feeling of love pushed us into opposition as we came from a place of fear, and we fought to prove our love was better than the other. This clearly wasn’t love in action. Yet at the time, it seemed to be.

Our girls were caught in the middle of what must have been a frightening and uncertain storm. I could have stopped the storm by doing what I was told to do.

There are choices you must make as a responsible adult to your children. Sometimes these choices are so challenging that you don’t want to make them. I felt both my options were unthinkable and I was stuck, smack bang, between a rock and a hard place and yet, one of these choices had to be made.

These were my options:

• forego my own life and soul and in the process inflict my misery on our children.

• take the unthinkable steps and let go, allowing them to live a more stable and secure life with their father.

I tried, but couldn’t find a third option. Into the mix I threw thoughts about what’s best for the greater good, for the girls, for my ex. I lay awake for weeks fighting an internal battle. I could feel my heart breaking, the tears pouring down my face, soaking the pillow. I knew there would be consequences whatever I did. The answer eventually came.

Solomon’s Wisdom Held the Key

My guidance came from King Solomon. I remembered the story about two women fighting over who was a baby’s mother. No agreement was going to be reached and so he said he would have the child halved with a sword so they could both have a part. At this point, one lady shouted out, ‘Give the child to her, just don’t kill it.’ Solomon promptly gave the child to the lady who had shouted. He knew that the mother of the child would be willing to let it go in order for it to live.

To many people, I made the wrong choice. I was told that as a mother I owed it to my children to put my life on hold until they left school. If I’d left it till then, I doubt they’d have had a mother.

It took me a long time to get over my guilt and shame of not being what society deems a perfect mother. It took me a long time to get over the pain of the girls belief that I had abandoned them. The girls (who have grown up and attend university) and I now have a good relationship with much love and understanding. I feel certain this will continue to improve as they continue to mature and ask different questions. No question will ever be left unanswered. I don’t ask their forgiveness. It was forgiveness of myself which allowed our relationship to continue.

The Often Hidden Special Mamas

As part of my healing process, I began to ask questions about mothering. It lead me to surprising places and answers. As I researched and interviewed women around the world, I discovered just how different mothering was from being a mother. It became obvious to me that there is no one special mama, nor is there a mama mould from which we are made. This series of posts is highlighting that perfectly. Each of us is different, because as women, as human beings even, we are different.

My experience of mothering began to take on a new form, and a new meaning. There are special mamas at your place of work, in caring environments, in the natural world, in the creative fields, in fact everywhere you look. Each project and work of love delivers a special mama. The women concerned may not be a mother to a child, but they know how to express their mothering wisdom. Mothering is learning that life is natural and cyclical. There’s a time to hold on, and a time to let go – not of the love, but of the creation. So it is as a mother, too.

While all mamas are special, not all are understood, let alone wanted. I used to feel that I was one of those, one of the ‘bad’ ones. I learned that I had to find a way to use my unique mothering wisdom in different ways, with different people and to expand upon my previous beliefs of what mothering was. I learned about the ‘Other Mothers’ we’ve all had and largely ignore – those women whose influence has helped shape us. I’ve learned that mothering is a community effort and there are too many of us who have felt isolated in our own challenges and shame. I have created the antidote, the get-out option so that no mother or daughter has to feel ‘less than’ ever again. That is my special mama offering.

Jackie

Jackie Walker is the Founder of The Mothering Revolution at themotheringrevolution.com. Her passion is encouraging women to ‘declutter’ their relationship with their own mothers. The Mothering Revolution introduces communities to counteract mothering in isolation, the aim is to recreate the old African saying ‘It takes a village to raise a child’ by reclaiming each woman’s mothering wisdom and unique expression. Find Jackie on Facebook at www.facebook.com/TheMotheringRevolution and Twitter at @JackieWalker. 

This post is part of a month-long guest post series titled Special Mamas. The series runs all May and is in honor of moms who have unique journeys to and through motherhood. To read all 13 posts in the Special Mamas series, CLICK HERE and you’ll be directed to the introductory post. At the bottom of the post, you’ll find all guest posts listed and linked for easy reading!

I’m pleased to introduce you to Susan who’s sharing her unique journey to and through motherhood as part of our month-long guest post series, Special Mamas. Susan experienced “typical” American family life with a husband and three boys for many years, but unexpectedly found herself a widow. She remarried a sweet and loving man named Tom who had children and grandchildren of his own. Today, Susan is sharing some insight about her experience of their blended family. I appreciate Susan’s post because it sheds light on what blended families call one another when traditional “names” and “titles” are not obvious. I also appreciate this post because it reminds us that at the end of the day, what really matters is love, respect and relationships. Enjoy, friends.

I have been a Mom since 1975 when my first son, Joseph, was born. His birth was followed by a second son, William, in 1978. Lastly, another son, Michael, in 1982. I think my life was pretty much typical for most American families. A loving married couple raising their children. I assumed that my life would go on with the boys growing up, eventually finding their future mates and if we were blessed, we would have grandchildren as we moved into our retirement years. Alas, this was not to be. My husband suddenly passed away just two weeks before our 30th wedding anniversary. I was 50 years old and my sons were 27, 24 and 19 at the time of his death. My Christian faith gave me comfort as I adjusted to being a widow and continued my career as a nurse working in a busy emergency department.

I then met Tom, and my life changed yet again. We married on January 10, 2004. This is where my story of being Mom and Grandma to a blended family begins.

When we married, I became “Mom” to an adult daughter 14 years younger than myself. Susan was already a grandmother, her daughter Courtney was only two years younger than my son Michael. Tom also had a son, Steven, who was married and had two children. It would be nice to say it was a happily ever after story from the beginning, but that would not be true. For even though Tom’s wife had passed away in 1997, his children and granddaughter had a hard time dealing with the fact that their Dad/Grandpa had remarried. There was a cool, aloof attitude from Steve & his wife. Courtney would only communicate via her Grandfather. It is hard to explain to someone that a person can still love and remember their deceased spouse yet fall in love again. I knew not to expect immediate affection, but I was not prepared for actual resentment and dislike. Tom and I were at a loss as to how to handle the situation. We decided that the best way for us to communicate our love and concern for all of our children was to remember that the greatest thing is LOVE. Tom and I continued to stay in touch with his children even though they were all living out of state from 2006 to 2014. We were there for them, to listen to their concerns, offer advice if requested, celebrate their joys and share in their tears.

There were ups and downs as Tom and I established ourselves as Mom and Dad to my sons and his children. Two of my sons and their wives called Tom by his first name, and yet, if they are introducing him to a friend, he is referred to as “My Dad.” My youngest son calls him “Pop.” I loved Tom’s family and my heart wanted them to love me in the same way. In my mind, that equated to being called “Mom” and “Grandma.” I needed to realize that the name I desired to be called meant little if there wasn’t affection associated with it.

Tom and I were married almost five years when his adult granddaughter was visiting with her husband and baby. There were many family events during those years with me in the role of Mom and Grandma. And yet, to my surprise, Courtney was still struggling with how to address me. I approached her and suggested that since she called Tom “Grandpa,”  it would be nice if she called me “Grandma.” This was my way of reaching out to her. Much to my surprise, she replied “I’m not comfortable doing that.” My feelings were hurt. I loved Courtney as my granddaughter. From my point of view, I had just been rejected. I paused and said, “I don’t want to be addressed by my first name only. I am more than just a casual acquaintance; I am your grandfather’s wife.” Then it was time for me to reassess my thoughts and expectations. What is in a name? Shouldn’t I look more closely into the actions of my newly acquired family? Steve was still distant and cold, yet he called me “Mom.” Courtney was sweet and loving, but couldn’t bring herself to call me “Grandma.”

It was time to take it to the Lord in prayer. I prayed that the Lord would “Open the eyes of my heart.” I needed to see this situation more clearly. The end result: I am Susan. I am Tom’s wife. I am a Mom. I am a Grandma. I am a Great-Grandma. I know now that what’s in my heart is what’s important, not what name I am called. I know now that I can’t make someone like me, love me or anything in between just because I care for them. That has to come from them and I am okay with that, too. I know now that there are different strokes for different folks. Not all families have the same ways of addressing each other. What is disrespectful in one family is perfectly okay in another. Today, we are a blend of different cultures and generations coming together. Tom’s granddaughter, Courtney, and my daughter-in-law, Jasmin, are the best of friends. Tom’s great grandchildren are close friends with my grandchildren. They don’t care who is their “real” Grandpa or Grandma. All they care about is the fact that they love each other and have a great time together.

P.S. I have given some thought to why I had these expectations. I am the second generation born in this country on my father’s side. His family was from Germany and Poland. In my father’s family, only immediate peers (such as a friends or cousins in your own age group) were called by their first name. All other adults were called Mister, Miss, Mom, Dad, Aunt, Uncle, Grandma or Grandpa. When I referred to my grandparents in conversation, I called them Grandpa and Grandma Kepple, or Grandpa and Grandma Beck. We never called or referred to my grandparents by their first names. These were titles of both love and respect.

Susan

This post is part of a month-long guest post series titled Special Mamas. The series runs all May and is in honor of moms who have unique journeys to and through motherhood. To read all 13 posts in the Special Mamas series, CLICK HERE and you’ll be directed to the introductory post. At the bottom of the post, you’ll find all guest posts listed and linked for easy reading!