One Last Time

Note: Ruth Scott, a mother of five, grandmother of ten, devoted wife, author, and one of the original Writing Mamas, passed away unexpectedly, but peacefully, in her sleep on December 28, 2009. Ruth will be greatly missed. The Writing Mamas Salon will seem smaller without her wisdom, sage advice, quirky humor, and generous heart. She was dearly loved. In her memory, we are publishing one of her pieces about motherhood and life. You may read all of her work by going into the search field and entering her name, Ruth Scott. While you have moved on, Ruth, your words will live on. You have left many footprints and touched even more souls. You will be fondly remembed. Always.

–Dawn Yun, founder, The Writing Mamas

Here is Ruth’s piece on motherhood and life: Continue… »

Three Decades Later He’s Still My Baby

I must have written to myself a lot as I am going through many old papers such as this one that was written on a typewriter and is almost too faint to read so I copied it onto the computer.

This was written five years after having had groin cancer. During cancer surgery they were supposed to have “cut my tubes” and as result I would no longer be able to conceive. However, in the intensity of a six-hour surgery that required transfusions due to heavy blood loss, they forgot.

I did not discover this fact until two years later when I became pregnant. I chose to not terminate the pregnancy as I was advised to do. The result of this pregnancy has always been an inspiration as I was in a state of heightened awareness and appreciation of all life’s meaning. Continue… »

A Man Will Always Be Your Son

“Your turn to tell the story, Mom.”

“No, it’s your turn,” I replied, and so he began.

No connected thoughts. Lots of giggles and silliness in his 4-year old delight until he settled into his pillow.

It is easy to tell a story when the listener believes in you and hangs on every word. The plot thickens or wanes as his breathing softens or excels as your story is interrupted with listener input.

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Listen to a Child?

Children ask very complicated questions, expecting an easy answer from that great source of all information, the one who “knows it all,” Mom.

Flattering as this may be, I’ve come up against some whopper questions in my rearing of five children. Most of the time I end up being the learner and they my teachers.

Some attempts at answering a 4-year old inquiry stand out in my memory. One occurred the day Alison, then four, watched the space shuttle. As the men walked in space she asked, “Mom, what is space?” I spent time and thought and many words showing her space and telling her what space was, such as the space in a glass, the space in the drawer, the space between where she stood, and where I stood.

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Love Letter to My Children

I have found in the raising of five children that sometimes it is better not to talk. Write a letter. Even if the child is quite young. We choose our words better when writing than speaking in the moment. Sometimes the letter is an apology, sometimes our love and caring comes through in words.

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Giving Every Piece of Ourselves to Our Children

One must be very brave to bear and raise a child.

It is amazing to me how radically our life is changed by a few pounds of bone and flesh and life-giving fluids, a squealing, shrieking, unattractive bit of life that we immediately accept as beautiful, absolutely unique of all who have ever been born and can accommodate our being, our habits, our routines, and our life forever.

It is considered “normal” to react in this positive way.

How much of ourselves we lose is in our control. No, not really, the needs, health, personality of the newborn can be in conflict or in unison with our needs, health and personality. Some newborns are far more demanding, born sick, deformed or just out of sync with Mom’s plan. And so it goes; all are changed due to varying circumstances.

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A Song Sung Sweetly to a Beautiful Child

I am writing this blog inspired by a blog I read last week.

A mother was recalling reading a bedtime story to her son. She then remembered singing a lullaby to him. She started singing, remembering all the words though evidently several years had passed since she had sung it to him.

He did not find the words familiar.

We all have memories for different things, one child remembers the music, another the words, one the setting or circumstances, the people assembled, etc.

My story is about my fourth daughter who remembered.

I think some felt that Ann should have been a boy, but I always knew she was the perfect fourth child. Coming from an all-girl family, I thought having all girls was normal. I always sang my children to sleep after reading a bedtime story, as they were so non-critical to the pitch and talent of my singing.

I often made up the words and rambled on until they slept peacefully. I remember reading somewhere that lullabies often reflected the mother’s feelings or situation. A poor mother might be singing her woes such as in the song, “Poor little lamb what will I do wee you.” Or the rich mother’s chanting, “All the pretty little horses.”

My song for Ann was that of a mother who had three older children and knew that no matter how hard you tried, you could not guarantee your child a lifetime of happiness. Each child must strive to fulfill his or her own needs. Continue… »

Immortality Can Be Found Through Our Children

Many of us go rushing through life thinking we should do something important, be someone, and then we die and recycle back into another piece of the whole and what is remembered?

I think of my mom and remember her Angel Food Cake. No one ever has, or ever will, make one like it.

I have her recipe and I fail every time I try to make it; so do my daughters. With her flat, antique whipper she produced it joyfully to the end; partly because I had surpassed her in so many other endeavors as she grew older.

When her hands grew arthritic, the grandchildren did the whipping and under her direction they were prideful and successful. The cake was there when I had a birthday, when my children were born; when I came home after surgery, and always appreciated.

I remember my Dad for wonderful rowboat rides up Curly Creek where he spun extemporaneous stories of the Adventures of Princess Virginia, or recited Shakespeare, Kipling, and Robert Service aloud to any and all who would listen.

I knew the “Quality of Mercy” from “The Merchant of Venice” by heart, long before I could understand its meaning. I remember breakfasts where he starred as the chef, making imaginative pancakes where his thin batter somehow managed to spell out our names or take the form of balls and bats or monsters. Continue… »

Full Circle

I wrote this in 1975 after spending a day with my son who at the time was two years old, going on three. I sent it to him today as he is the stay at home father of Ruby Nicole who is two going on three.

I had come into the house from an hour or two spent in the yard exploring nature’s wonders and playing in the sandbox. I put him down for a nap and sat down to my typewriter and wrote.

I want to thank you, Nathaniel, for keeping me in touch with the intuitive.

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Mistaken Identity

My son seemed depressed, really depressed. He didn’t want to get up in the morning. His energy level was the lowest I had ever seen, even though he was always hungry and ready for something to eat.

Time to have a “man to man,” “woman to man,” “mom to son,” — heart-to-heart talk!

“Is there anything going on that I should know about, Nathaniel?”

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