Spring seems to be the perfect time to celebrate motherhood.
In the traditional sense of mothering, I have my roll as mother to my children and grandchildren. This roll is getting tricky at times, especially since Andy moved in. For the most part, he is good company and I am fully enjoying the opportunity to spend this time with him. Occassionally, I find myself asking him what I consider normal questions that he interprets as something akin to maternal interrogation. Honestly, I don’t think I have a hidden agenda, most times I’m only making conversation to connect with a person living in my home. Uggh!
Then there are my four legged children, Izzie and Purrl. I’m not really their mother, but I do sort of mother them. They too at times suspect I have a hidden agenda, but they would be right. I am truly guilty of subterfuge in my attempts to lure them onto my lap for cuddles.
My mothering is not limited to the confines of my home and family. I have recently discovered a very young squirrel living under the hose reel in the back garden. He too, has become an object of my concern. He seems way too small and vulnerable to be out on his own. I give him a daily ration of birdseed to give him a boost. It’s probably not the wisest idea to feed rodents so close to the house, but babies have to eat, don’t they?
Transcending species, genus and kingdoms, I have a nursery of baby plants. Up on the crest of the back yard, I have a small group of pots containing a dozen seedlings I received from the Arbor Society. I tend them carefully, gently stroke their budding leaves and give them daily pep talks. I have only one hold-out dogwood that I’m still pulling for, the rest seem to be off to a healthy start. On the deck I have a flat of zinneas in jiffy pots almost ready to go in the ground.
Aside from my own mothering, this spring we have been treated to several families of house finches who visit our feeders. The parents gather seed while the young ones sit on the top of the feeder or on a nearby branch flapping their wings with mouths open wide. Soon the fledglings in the nests in my Boston Ferns will join them. Andy checks on them daily for me since he is tall enough to see over the top of the fronds.
Mothering seems to come naturally to me, probably because I come from a long line of women who each in turn loved, nurtured and launched the next generation. I know I am blessed in that respect. I guess it’s in the genes; they’re the only kind of “Mom-Genes” I will proudly wear.