Generations

The first piece of furniture Mom ever purchased was a bentwood rocking chair. Although much of Mom and Dad's possessions have been dispersed, none of us could part with the chair. My next older sister currently has custody of it.

One of my earliest memories of Mom is her rocking my younger sister and I in that chair. Every day after lunch we would read books and then Mom would rock and rock and rock and sing to us. Mom was tone deaf. In later years we realized just how horrible a singer she was, but it never bothered us she did not come close to a perfect pitch, when we were in her arms and she sang to us nothing else mattered.

I rocked our own children. We had our routines that changed a little as we added to our brood. But for each child Mom's lullabies were pulled out and sung, and occasionally replaced by Bob Dylan. But we rocked and sang all the same. I did the same for our grandchildren. One must be careful what one sings to children as they will often pull out inappropriate songs at inappropriate times.

I recall a time we were sitting on a beach in St. Augustine with Mom and Dad and the grandchildren thought it would be a good time to belt out Rainy Day Women. All I could say to Mom was, "Well, they will keep you humble, won't they?"

I am visiting our daughter for a few weeks. I listened as she put her young twin sons down for a nap. The boys are busy, busy, busy. Going all the time. When nap time comes they are ready for some sleep. I listened to all the familiar lullabies and a few I did not know. I heard the familiar creak of a rocking chair.

I miss those snuggling times. I miss the feel of little hands in mine. I miss the feel of warm breath on my neck and butterfly kisses on my cheek. I miss grubby little hands working hard fill buckets with sand.

And I feel my daughter's exhaustion...that bone-weary feeling of utter frustration when the boys tonk one another on the head with a block, or fight over the same matchbox car when there are 30 more almost identical cars in the toy box, or cry when they don't want to come inside for dinner.

And when I tell her to enjoy every minute because these times will pass too quickly, I know she understands what I am telling her -- the same way I understood my mother when she told me. But we still wish for some peace and quiet. Some alone time in the bathroom. A chance to shower without an audience or without little hands pounding on the door.

And yet, somehow, the time passes too quickly and you are left with memories and lingering doubts.... Did I do enough? Did they have a happy childhood? Did I read enough books?

My daughter was surprised when I shared my doubts with her. Just as I was surprised when Mom shared her doubts with me.  I think many of us second-guess our parenting skills. We can offer a false bravado, but there will always be that nagging doubt. The feeling we should have done more, or differently. And in the end we have to be satisfied that whatever our doubts,  we did the best we could.