The Little Things

Well, it's 3 a.m. and I can't sleep, so, here I am.

Since I started the "Motherhood" theme a week ago on a Tuesday, and I still have one more piece to finish on this subject (after this one), I guess I'm kind of stretching it into a week and a half extravaganza.

I've been thinking often, while writing these posts, of how "surprising" Motherhood can be.  As I've mentioned previously, I am not a sappy Mom, and I still stick to that, for the most part.  I remember, when I was pregnant, that people always told me Motherhood would be the "most rewarding job" in my life.  I further remember, years later, thinking that those people had probably been on crack, or in denial.

The thing is, the "rewarding" part can be really difficult to see.  You're not paid for this job (quite the opposite, in fact).  You are rarely, if ever, thanked for this job. You are tested, and challenged, and tested some more, in unending and unrepenting fashion.  And, in general, you can't quit it.  You can, but that's bad.  You can't even retire from it.

When your child is very young, the rewards are rather easy to see.
S/he smiles when you walk into a room.
Reward.
He makes you a bead necklace that looks like a gigantic Star of David and hangs on a blue string of yarn.
Reward.
She throws her arms around your neck and declares you the 'best Mom ever' because you bought her a Bratz doll.
Reward.

Over the years I came to realize that the "rewards" were not as easily come by, and were generally something unseen by the outside world.  I grew to recognize that the rewards were usually just the quiet result of my child being who he was. At least, this was how it was with me and my boy.



As he was growing up, Spenser was never the excitable, overly demonstrative sort of child.  While I was very free with my affections (I know, you don't believe this), and he grew up in our Italian family of kissers/huggers, he usually came across as a little reserved.  Not shy, and not cold, but not the throwing the arms around the neck type, either.
When you got a hug from Spenser, it was the real deal, and you knew it.  I knew that he loved me, but I also knew that if he was ever caught mugging for some television camera, he wouldn't be the one yelling, "HI MOM!"

I asked Spenser once, a few years ago, whether he had good memories of his Christmases, growing up.  The reason I asked, is because he was not like me (or 98% of the other child population) in respect to this one holiday.  For me, growing up, it was a time full of excitement and cheer and sleepless nights and trying to be good and waking up at 3 a.m. and counting down the minutes before I could go jump in my parents' bed to awaken them.  It didn't seem to be that way for Spenser.

When I was a kid, I had extravagant and specific "Dear Santa" letters, complete with cutouts from toy circulars and page listings from the Sears' Toy Book.  Spenser took ages to write anything down, and usually it was only half-hearted requests for items upon which he would often change his mind... not to replace with other items, just to say he didn't want them any longer.  Do you know, I actually used to have to WAKE HIM UP on Christmas morning.

As part of that conversation, Spenser told me that sometimes he felt guilty that he always received so much at Christmas, and that maybe other kids were getting less or not as lucky as he was.  What kid says that?
You know, you read all these magazine articles about parents who want their kids to think of others for the holidays, and not be so selfish and greedy, and to enjoy the true meaning of Christmas...and here, my kid got it, without me even trying very hard to instill it.  And he got it, very early on.
Reward.

When Spenser was 3 and a half, I took him to DisneyWorld, even though everyone told me it would be an absolute nightmare; that he was too young, he wouldn't appreciate it, he would have tantrums, it would be horrible.

When we went into the Lion King puppet show, he sat on my lap and was singing aloud (but not too loudly) to all of the songs... to the point where people were turning around and watching him.  Not with frowns, either.  We even got compliments after the show.  He wasn't running around the front of the room, jumping on the seats, interfering with the people in front of him, or screaming relentlessly.  He was just a 3 year old kid in total amazement, and full of joy.
Reward.

He didn't have any tantrums about waiting in endless lines or not being able to see Mickey (he was happy with Eeyore), or about not being able to buy every trinket and food item he saw.  Not a tear, not a complaint.  At the nighttime parade, I put him on my shoulders, and could feel his entire body shaking because he was waving like a maniac to The Little Mermaid on her float.  It doesn't get much more joyful than that.

My 3 year old kid, who hadn't napped, who was 'too young' to appreciate anything, was, I dare say, the perfect child.  When we got him into the car, I looked back in my rearview mirror, and saw he had fallen asleep with one of those gigantic swirly lollipops stuck to his cheek.  Life was peaceful, life was good.  I had a really good kid.
Reward.

When he was 11, we were attending the funeral Mass of an uncle, for whom I was to give the spoken eulogy.  When I went to walk up to the altar, Spenser started walking up, alongside of me.  I turned to tell him he should sit down, but the priest encouraged him to come up.  And so, he stood next to me, on the altar, while I was reading.  He even told me it was 'good,' afterward.  This may not seem like anything phenomenal, but if you know anything about 11 year old boys, you know that the last person they want to be seen with, anywhere, particularly in public, is with their mother.  And yet, there he was, at my side, in front of everyone.
Reward.

So, it turns out that this 'most rewarding job' did have some payouts.  The rewards weren't full of flair and pomp, they weren't given at expected times or even the needed times, and they were rare.  It wasn't about big life events or holidays or letters written to Oprah about how great a Mom I was.  It was all about the little things.  The quiet moments.  The mostly unseen deeds and actions of my son.  The gigantic Star of David bead necklace hung on a blue string of yarn.
Rewards.