I kissed my dad on the forehead and watched my mom as she bent over and kissed him too.  He’s a little confused these days so these kisses and goodbyes are difficult. It was a slightly sloppy Saturday; grey and chilly, with a thin layer of ice covering the ground, undetectable to anyone under the age of 65. My mom gathered her things; purse, coat, keys, and her list. We set off out the door to get a few things done, as women often do.  My mom’s list was on a scrap piece of lined paper, unlike mine on my phone, where I can conveniently share it with my husband on days like today when I am away and he can jump in. My mom and I are 36 years apart. We have lived in different cities for decades, grown up in different eras, made different career choices, married different types of men and had a different combination of kids. She saw the dawn of the television, I witnessed the attack of the smartphone. I get mad at my kids, she rarely did.  I’m loud, she’s quiet. I love movies and pop culture, she loves a good book. She worried about manners and making sure we listened to our teachers. I worry about anxiety, and tracking phones. Much of the time she let us run free because we lived in a community of friends. I spend my time trying to encourage my kids to run free, because otherwise, we will lose our community of friends. Our time together is mostly spent enjoying good stories about family and what’s happening in the news - always warm and fun.

Undeniably, we each spend most of our days loving and caring because we are mothers and that is an awful lot to have in common. More than anything, the thing that binds us, the thing we can wink at each other over because we are in that secret club, the thing that drives us like icebreakers on the Atlantic in January, is our blind devotion and soul-sucking contract with the all-consuming list.  Those gawd forsaken, stinking lists that start writing themselves the day a child is born; the lists that appear out of nowhere like mushrooms on a dead tree, fruit flies on an apple, and sunburn on a tricep muscle. The lists that cannot be avoided. The lists that visit you in the night like Scrooge and his ghosts.

A Mother’s Sample To-Do list (in no particular order)

• wake up before everyone else

• unload the dishwasher

• prepare breakfast(s) and vitamins

• reload the dishwasher

• make lunches

• make dinner(s)

• sweep

• vacuum

• put clothes away that landed on the floor

• re-fold anything that was put in drawers by teenagers or toddlers

• fix drawers that were pulled, yanked or slammed by teenagers or toddlers

• smell everything that was put in drawers to determine if it belongs there

• check appointments for the week

• re-juggle calendar so work appointments don’t interfere with family appointments

• go to work

• oops, brush teeth and put on makeup

• take care of online banking without letting anyone see you cry

• moisturize your neck while looking in the mirror without letting anyone see you cry

• cry when your child brings home the character education award for self-control but only because you have tears left over from banking and moisturizing your neck

• hide your confusion at your child winning the award for self-control?

• find a partner, nanny, or chardonnay to talk to

• drive children to hockey, lacrosse, dance, soccer, guitar, NASA camp, the white house, rehab - whatever it is

• watch your child’s team or performance with one eye while the other eye strains to see  phone screen and catch up on emails and texts so as not to scar them for life because you missed their goal or the one line they had in the play that made no sense

• take aspirin for eye-strain headache

• feed somebody, everybody

• wipe the fridge after mentally identifying each spill and approximate date of incident by discoloration and viscosity

• whisper all your angry thoughts in the dog’s ear, then talk baby talk to him so everyone thinks your happy

• don’t forget to take kids home from hockey, lacrosse, dance, soccer, guitar, NASA camp, the white house, rehab - whatever it is

• clean up the kitchen and mudroom

• pack up leftovers

• grocery shop

• go to pharmacy and mispronounce the name of all your prescriptions

• clean the bathroom(s)

• check homework

• empty mailbox into recycling

• wash out lunch bags and try not to mentally add up money wasted on food that was squished

• pick up messages from the school without the kids hearing, then act like you know what happened at school because you’re omnipresent and not because the teacher called

• go through school letters and sign permission forms for track and field, the school play, the art gallery trip, Reptilia, dental screening, and scientist-in-the-school activities

• pay for a new gym uniform and pizza days from now until the end of time, and then find a photograph of your favourite family vacation, with everyone in it, for a project due tomorrow

• talk to your kids about drugs

• talk to your kids about sex

• try not to let your kids see you looking for drugs or sex (no no no - kidding)

• clean up the kitchen and mudroom, again

• grocery shop, again

• check in with how everyone is feeling today

• remain calm and blink at regular human-like intervals while you ponder the responsibility of maintaining everyone’s emotional well-being 24-7

• think about lunches for tomorrow and what foods are un-squishable

• text your kids reminders of their schedules for tomorrow

• text your kids to find out where they are in the house

• don’t answer texts when they ask you where you are

• start the shower train

• put Epsom salts in your kids bath to help them soothe their muscles after track and field

• ask them how they felt after winning the character education award for self-control

• hold their hand and kiss their wrinkly knuckles when you tell them how proud you are of them for winning

• tell them you were never as good at soccer or dance or acting as they are

• hug them and cry when they tell you they’re gay

• tell them all the awkward, important things in life while you are wiping the counters, looking busy and not making eye contact

• tell them all the REALLY important awkward things when you are tucking them in at night, in the dark, when the only distraction is love and blankets

• put an embarrassing note in their lunch bag that reminds them how much you care

• let your kids be angry

• drive them to a friends house on Friday night even though you really want to sit on the couch to watch the Breakfast Club and discuss the perils of growing up instead of dropping them off at some other kids house to grow up without you

• pretend you don’t know they do they bad things

• forgive them for leaving the house without saying good-bye

• kiss them a lot, especially the tall ones

• tell them which of their friends you like and which of their friends you don’t

• talk about mental health

• don’t waste a single moment alone with your kids in silence. Talk.

• enjoy long silences together

• remind the kids of the time they smeared their own poop all over the rungs of their crib during nap time and you cleaned it up, bathed them, and cuddled them until they fell asleep again so they know you’re committed

• start the dishwasher

• find the other dress shoe for the concert tomorrow

• buy your child new dress shoes because you can’t find the other one

• eat 10 packages of fruit chews because your kids don’t like them anymore but forgot to tell you before you went to Costco and bought a barn-size box of them

• tell everybody where everything is despite knowing they never even tried to look

• make up poems and stories to tell your kids at bedtime so they sleep

• make up poems and stories to tell yourself at bedtime so you sleep through the worry of being a mom

• play music loud and teach your kids to love tea instead of pop

• make a to-do list for tomorrow

• figure out what you forgot to do today and try to do it in the last 20 minutes before guzzling Nyquil

• try to wash your face (because you forgot) before the Nyquil kicks in

• be grateful for everything

• forgive everyone because there’s not enough time, chardonnay or magic in the universe to change the past

• stand in awe of this list

• remember to call mom

• think of mom

Returning home, skies still grey, my mom and I kiss my dad hello and thank the PSW for helping out.  Resting her purse on a chair, my mom sets her list on the table with the few remaining items on it that were left undone. Those leftover tasks sit exposed, almost glowing on the page, screaming to be completed and triumphantly crossed out.  A new list is already forming, keeping my mom in motion like an icebreaker on the frozen Atlantic.

Knowing there is no end to her scroll, I’m reminded of all the homemade Mother’s Day cards, macaroni necklaces and dream catchers made from discarded straws and dyed feathers with stems sharp enough to perform laser eye surgery with and I realize, whatever I gave my mom over the years is not enough.

I don’t know if my mom ever thought to ask for help and share her list. I don’t know if she ever would have, but in many ways, she has shared it with me.  I am now up to my neck in love, groceries and ticking off life’s biggest moments. I scribble, type and cross off the duties and rewards in my own life and once in a while, whenever I can, reach out to help my mom with her list, whether she asks for it or not.  It’s not always because I want to help and be selfless. Sometimes, at the end of a long day, week, or month, I show up because I still want to be on my mom’s list and I need to let her know she’s on mine.   

“Thus far the mighty mystery of motherhood is this: How is it that doing it all feels like nothing is ever getting done.” - Rebecca Woolf

By Carol Sloan

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