I get as verklempt as the next mother but Mother’s Day mushiness is a crime against us all. We (yes using the royal we here) are not about the ubiquitous pastel potted plants. I will miss my mother forever. I’m hoping to be a grandmother someday. I’m not immune to the idea of a morning when I get to sleep in and have coffee handed to me.
But motherhood is not mush. It’s not for wimps. Here’s some of my mothering memories:
- Watching Abi fly sideways off a horse at a canter, scooping her up and driving her while she vomited from the pain, to Yale-New Haven ER. Six hours, broken elbow treated.
- Rounds of ear infections that drew me closer to my pediatrician and farther away from any natural sleep pattern.
- Slo-mo horror of seeing Em kick at a glass door and seeing the blood spill from the cut.
- Sitting for one very long Good Friday with Buttercup, Em’s hamster, as the tiny golden animal died and we read Treasure Island to her.
- Trying to get out the door because we had a chance to meet President Clinton and being stopped dead when Abi dropped a glass and cut her hand. Rushing through ER and smiling as the President shook hands with my bandaged daughter.
- Searching out the closest urgent care for Abi who had developed a red, weeping eye infection on vacation. I doled out dark glasses and antibiotics along with the sunscreen that week.
- Calling the Fire Department to help untangle Abi’s toes from the gears of an exercise bicycle.
- Waking up to a text message from London, Abi’s new hometown, that she had just been admitted to hospital and was recovering but there was blood everywhere. Booking a Virgin flight and spending two weeks shuttling her back and forth to get surgical dressing changed.
- Sitting at Em’s bedside for 6 days last month as she recovered from surgery at Beth Israel in Manhattan and cried from the pain of more than 50 surgical sutures.
- Realizing that I will never retire.
And that’s fine with me.

Bandaged and happy, Abi met President Clinton
I know my list pales in comparison to so many mothers, friends, and worldwide. It is a day to be grateful for the strength that carries us on. I’m also grateful that I got the life opportunity to be Em and Abi’s mother.
Betsy Fitzgerald is an award-winning author who lives and writes in Groton, Massachusetts. Her first Phred Rivers novel, October Run, is available from 

Today, I am as likely to do my own nails–it’s a life got too busy sort of thing. I play with other colors. When black polish hit as a trend, I went for that as well. There’s a certain don’t mess with me attitude that goes with ebony tips. And you can change at whim with a splash of remover.

Lastly, I know Brooklyn as part of family lore. My grandfather, Willard Harold Fitzgerald (Harry) was a young graduate in civil engineering from Columbia University when he worked on the Manhattan Bridge that rises with impunity at the end of Flatbush Avenue, then lands on lower Manhattan through a collanaded limestone arch. He was a supervisor on the construction when he took on a challenge from one of the crew. They challenged the young Harry to hoist iron. He injured himself, permanently wrenching muscles in his back. From then on he walked with a twisted frame. I’ve always thought of the Manhattan Bridge as “our bridge.” And less famous than its sister Brooklyn Bridge, the Manhattan is now the gateway to my daughter’s neighborhood.
The sun is shining on this March day. We’ll walk. And walk. I may stop in at the independent 
Dog Rescue. Human redemption. Journalism. 
After the movie, I sought out the book. I found an even more complex story–the neighbor addicted to painkillers and the heightened racism. Boo Radley reminded me of the neighbor up my own road–an old lady who frightened me. As I read, Atticus came to life even more. The adventurers, Scout and Gem and Dill were about my age. When Scout was caught up in her chicken-wire costume, her fear was my fear. And the lessons crystallized for me.
But I’m happy for 17-5641. Color of the year. Coming soon to a scarf, shoe, book, paint near you.
