Gloria Steinem and Dolly Parton in 1987. (Credit: Robin Platzer/Getty Images)
Dolly Parton died last week. Gloria Steinem died this past Wednesday. These outwardly opposite women jointly represent a brand of feminism that championed a cause personal to me: the right to not give birth along with the beauty and generosity of mothering. I didn't grow up fantasizing about raising children because I was doing that already, taking care of my three little sisters. Sure I played with dolls and rocked them to sleep and fed them with those magic baby bottles where the liquid disappeared as I tilted it up and held it to my doll's lips. But I mostly enjoyed doing that because I liked being in charge, not because I was interested in growing a person.
Neither woman ever gave birth, but both were committed to the act of mothering. During a chat with Interview magazine in 1984, Parton recounted, "When I got married and wanted to have children, I couldn't have any. But I don't miss it. I did for awhile, but I realize that I am everybody's mother. I've raised five of my younger brothers and sisters, and now their kids call me Aunt Grannie." Steinem expanded and gave the definition a broader scope, "We are all able to mother, whatever our sex or our age or our abilities. To mother is to care about the welfare of another person as much as one's own. To mother depends on empathy and thoughtfulness, noticing and caring." The two women together join the noun mother and the verb to mother to create a fuller concept, a whole way of being in the world that paradoxically distinguishes them as individuals, near anomalies, and grounds them in the collective, still members of a larger ecosystem. The physical act of creating and birthing life is not a prerequisite to answer the call of mothering. Unlike these icons, I have enjoyed and endured the experience of pregnancy, labor, and delivery, but one of the great reliefs of my life is that this physical sacrifice does not comprise the whole of my identity. However, if like these icons I hadn't given birth, I know in my bones that the act of mothering would still be a consistent source of purpose and fulfillment throughout my life.
Caught in the act of mothering, 2018. (Credit: Katarina Weber)
John and I started dating during the fall of our senior year of high school, and I recognized early on that he is a mama's boy, in the best sense of the term. Whenever he drove me home after a date, he would stop at a drive-thru on the route to bring fries or a milkshake back to his mom. If she fell asleep on the couch while watching TV, he would sweetly nudge her, guide her to the stairs, and make sure she made it to bed. He called her "Mama," still does actually. He demonstrated a tenderness for his mother that I had not seen from any other boy or man in my life to that point. This was not blind devotion or worship from his side, nor was it constant demands or smothering from her side, the stereotypical dynamic we see in sitcoms. They have always enjoyed each other's company and were curious about each other's day-to-day feelings and activities. Watching their interactions, mothering each other, gave me trust and confidence in John as a future partner, considering a man's relationship with his mother is often an indication of how he feels about women in general. If he was this gentle, patient, and generous with his mom, then I had faith he would treat me the same way. And he did.
What I had not anticipated was that his mother Mary Joyce would want to enjoy my company and would be curious about my day. She and I had our own dates; she would pick me up at my house, take me out to lunch at one of her favorite spots, then go to the mall, garden center, or craft store. Chatting and sharing stories all the while, I grew increasingly fond of her and looked forward to our next outing. Not once in that first year of our teen romance did the woman who would eventually become my mother-in-law ever speak for John or try to educate me on his likes and dislikes or put up walls between us. In fact, when we were together, we hardly mentioned John at all. As it happens, she and I are both yappers. I loved asking her questions about her own childhood just as much as she loved telling me the stories. Then she would ask me questions and wanted to know about my family and our nearly 100-year history in a town that she had only known for about thirty years. We talked about what it's like to be a sister and a daughter, the two family roles we had in common at that point. I didn't know any other high schooler who had this type of bond with their boyfriend's mom, still don't to be fair. But I was immediately and continue to be grateful for it, knowing how uncommon and special this relationship is.
Thirteen years down the road, Mary Joyce and I had added a couple more roles to our overlapping circles: wife and mother. In that time, she taught me how to garden, how to stencil paint my bathroom walls (and just about anything else she laid her hands on), and how to make her famous caramel corn at Christmas. I was a good student albeit one achieving varying degrees of success in these lessons. She has an uncanny way of giving feedback in these scenarios and mostly uses one of two tactics. She'll either say, "Oh, you can do it over or try a different way," if she thinks you have potential. Or she'll say, "Maybe this isn't for you," if she thinks you should keep your day job. I have since learned that my reaction to her feedback is also uncommon. Apparently, many wives would not take kindly to either tactic from their mother-in-law because the first could be considered passive-aggressively critical, and the second could be mistaken as outright dismissive. I have never taken her feedback as either; I accept both examples as clear, honest, and kind of funny. This alchemy whereby she says out loud to me what she thinks and feels and I accept it positively is the crux of our connection. She trusts that my reaction to her is not going to demonstrate any hurt, disappointment, or anger from me. I trust that what she shares with me is not antagonizing, undermining, or belittling. In fewer words, we assume the good about each other, and that unspoken understanding cements our relationship.
In the early years of a child's life, much of the work of mothering is physical care. Bathing, feeding, wiping, brushing, washing, dressing, holding, hugging. Mothering, in its most essential form and beyond the physical care, is also teaching. Mary Joyce taught me more than just where to prune a rose bush or how to keep caramel from burning. She mothered me when she sought me out and wanted to spend time together. She mothered me when she told me a beanie I bought in Norway was the ugliest hat she had ever seen because I agreed and still loved it. She mothers me now when she is delighted by the smallest, simplest treat, like a slushy on a hot summer day. She mothers me when she asks how my mom is doing these days. She mothers me every time she tells me thank you, which she never fails to do. She mothers me every time she declares, "I am!," when John asks her who his favorite person is, looking slyly over at me knowing that we are both in on the set-up of making John smile. Watching her mother has made me a better mother, a lesson so valuable that I pray it becomes my kid's inheritance.
Mary Joyce has been a part of my life for as long as John has been, nearly two-thirds of my total 47 years. When you've been so immersed in new life, as I was with my little girl, you don't ever think about how mastering those physical tasks of mothering will come in handy later, as you care for aging parents. She was in a skilled nursing facility a few years ago, recovering from hip surgery, and while we were visiting, she tried to add sugar to her coffee, spilled it across the bed tray, and got a little flustered and upset. I stood up to scoop the spill into the little trash can and give the tray a quick wipe so it wouldn't be sticky. I reassured her that the spill was no biggie and easy to clean up in no time. The photo above was taken by my daughter in that moment, caught in the act of mothering my mother-in-law, evidence that the Kiddo witnessed care for her grandmother that was automatic and genuine and filled with love. And like Dolly Parton and Gloria Steinem, if she never becomes a mother, the noun, I do hope my child mothers, the verb.