• Carmen Marie Fabio

Mother of brothers


Photo courtesy Pexels

One of the nice things about getting older is that I just don’t really need any more material things so when my boys asked me what I wanted for Mother’s Day this year, I told them maybe a new birdfeeder. But if they couldn’t find one, then just give me a card. Preferably handmade.

There are a whole host of things you can’t possibly predict when you consider starting a family. I think that’s part of nature’s greater plan because if you did, you might not actually go through with it. And while I can’t speak for the grace and coordination of little girls, I can let you know that boys, mine at least, were clumsy and ungainly, with their heads collectively having an almost magnetic attraction to the ground.

My dose of motherhood reality was cemented when my firstborn, named Zach, decided that eating every four hours must be for peasants and insisted on dining every 90 minutes while crib sleeping was also not to his blue-blood tastes. The only way for me to get any sleep was to sit upright on the bed in the spare bedroom with him in my arms. Unfortunately, once asleep, the human body has a tendency to go limp meaning my arms drooped to my sides and my finally-sleeping six-week-old rolled right off me, off the bed, and onto the floor. The ensuing scream (mine) brought hubby running and while my pediatrician confirmed the next day that my son was just fine, I cried for the following three days. Little did I know that this was just the tip of the head-banging iceberg.

A subsequent trip to my dentist, a father of three boys himself, had him ask me, “Has he hit the ground yet?”

“Yes,” I sniffled, eyes beginning to water.

“Don’t worry,” he said, patting my arm reassuringly. “All of mine have hit the ground. They bounce.”

Their childhood is a blur of bumps, bruises, stitches and blood, and while they made it through relatively unscathed, my lifespan has been reduced probably by at least five years.

“Have you ever been to the emergency department before?” asked the naïve young medical resident one night, filling out the paperwork as I attempted to staunch the bleeding.

“I have three boys,” I snapped. “I’ve been in this very room before.”

They’ve graduated to adulthood and now tower over me. The dropping incident gets blame/credit every time I dare to criticize Zach’s taste in music or his twisted sense of humour.

“It’s because you dropped me,” he’ll say, staring right at me with a straight face.

This Mother’s Day was spent mostly away from the kids as I went to visit my own mom, but I did get the requisite quirky comic card from the eldest, a nice heartfelt written note from my middle son, and – surprisingly – a PowerPoint presentation from my youngest on why 99 per cent of moms can’t compete with me (though he includes a caveat saying, “There’s that 1% out there, though. Watch out.”)

The reasons I’m reportedly almost the best include:

  • You let us do stupid things

  • You let us say stupid things

  • You take us to awesome places

  • You buy us sushi

  • You dropped Zach

Happy belated Mother’s Day.

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