Would I be the kind of parent my mother was with me? Luckily, I was nothing like her | Opinion

It’s a big subject, mothering.

But I’m more than willing to jump right in. Without any doubt, hesitation or reservation of any kind, I know one thing for sure: Being a mother is the best, happiest, most fun thing I’ve ever done.

Ah, you may say, “You probably had a wonderful mother and father, a happy childhood, all the necessities to produce an adult ready to mirror positive role models and create a nurturing, happy home for children.

And you would be wrong. My dad left when I was only a baby. My mother was — with very few exceptions — unhappy, mean and punishing. It sounds harsh, but that’s the way it was.

Opinion

Much of the information available at the time I was contemplating parenthood emphasized that an abused child would likely grow into an abusive adult. Fearing that possibility — and determined that it would not be true of me — I looked for answers.

I took classes. I read books. One of the very best books (now out of print) was “The Child Under Six,” by James L. Hymes, Jr. What a read. It’s all about patience, encouragement and being in the moment with the child. Not wishing away time by longing for the moment when she will be potty trained, weaned, no longer sucking her thumb, and so on. In other words, fruitlessly wishing invaluable time away.

“After all,” the author said, “death is not the goal of life. Living is.”

Another book that proved eye-poppingly helpful was “Magical Child,” by Joseph Chilton Pearce. My-oh-my, if you only read one, let this be it. It provides lessons in safety, basic bonding with the first mother — the earth — and holding dear the beautiful being entrusted to your care.

And I must mention “Nursing Your Baby,” by Karen Pryor. At the time I had my sons, born in 1969 and 1970, virtually no one was breastfeeding. When I first took my six-week-old to the pediatrician, the doctor asked me what I was feeding him.

“I’m breastfeeding,” I replied.

With an expression of incredulity, in an agitated voice, he said, “That is not real food. If you don’t start him on cereal today, I will report you to Child Protective Services.”

My boys were born during a period when formula makers proudly proclaimed their products as the preferred methods of feeding babies. The medical establishment knew very little about a natural approach to childbirth and nurturing. I continued to breastfeed, and I became a charter member of The Childbirth Education League in Salinas. Together, we changed things.

Even with all this knowledge, I still had reservations. Would I be the kind of mother my mother was with my two brothers and me? She was particularly punishing with my little brother, who was so small, so defenseless and so precious.

To my abundant delight, when my boys were born, I found that my mother’s version of parenting was never a part of me — not anywhere to be found in my heart or soul. I loved them, breastfed them both, held them when they cried and read to them every night. I provided them with transitional objects — for one, it was a stuffed bear specially made for him by my best friend, and for the other, it was a particularly ragged old yellow blanket. Unsurprisingly, these were all things my mother said would “spoil” them.

My mother’s expressed opinion throughout my boys’ childhood was, “Someday they will hate you.”

My boys and me? We rejoiced in life and each other. Camping. Roller coasters. Building rivers and lakes in the mud. Imaginary games around “the broken car place” in the pasture behind us in Prunedale. Riding dune buggies (yes, all three of us).

There was a road trip to Expo 86 in Vancouver. A week spent on a houseboat on the Sacramento River Delta. Fleet Week in San Francisco for my son, Douglas. Big construction sites for my other son, Jason.

And I was a part of every experience when they began to make their way in the world — school, church, sports, all of it. When they played soccer, I learned the rules of this sport which was just making its way into the American consciousness. I happily officiated at “bunch ball” games played by six-year-olds.

When they entered high school, I thought maybe I should back off some and not be so present. My younger son came home from school one day and, looking at me with a quizzical expression, asked, “Why aren’t you involved at school like always?” I answered, “I thought maybe you guys would like me to back off some now that you’re in high school.” Jason looked at me with a baffled expression and said, “Mom, you’re the mom everyone wants. Why wouldn’t we want you there?”

So, my mother was wrong.

“Someday” has come and gone. They do not hate me.

Bunny Stevens lives in Modesto, her hometown, and has served on The Modesto Bee Community Advisory Board. She is the opening courtesy clerk at the Safeway supermarket on McHenry Avenue and an ordained minister in the Universal Life Church. She has also been known to represent the Easter Bunny and Santa’s Elf for children of all ages. Reach her at BunnyinModesto@gmail.com