The above photo is of me and my two kids on a Mother’s Day from years ago — the year 2000 as you can see in the bottom corner of the photo. The following photo is from three years ago when my kids and I decided to recreate the first photo. They were adorable back then, and they’re still adorable — if only I could easily hold them on my lap, still! Ha ha
Today, in honor of Mother’s Day and of all the moms out there, I want to talk about how important motherhood is to me and how it plays a part in all my books.
First, though, a couple poems that I wrote years ago about motherhood:
Mother Hood Some ladies are called and even prefer the nickname BIKER BABE, or worse, (for me) BIKER CHICK -- I am not a fuzzy little bird. It’s been suggested I should call myself MOTORCYCLE MAMA, or even MOTOMAMA for short, but please, that is so absurd. No to HARLEY HOTTIE (compliment noted), HEAVENLY HOGETTE, or even DAVIDSON DUDETTE -- I’m female, if you haven’t heard. I leave those in my dust and settle on a bit of play on word that fits for two of my favorite roles-- just call me MOTHER HOOD. Motherhood Mentor of our future Overseer of chores Talent-scout and coach Heroine to all frights Energizer-bunny Reader of nightly stories Holder of hands Overlord of the manor Organizer extraordinaire Defender of all that is hers Tammy Marshall, one tough mother
In my current novel in progress called “Her Ride or Die,” the protagonist is a middle-aged woman who is also a mom and a motorcyclist. Her daughter is grown and on her own, so the woman decides it’s time to get the bike she’s always wanted to get. Little does she know, though, that something tragic happened to its original owner and she’s about to be taken for the ride of her life and will become embroiled in seeing that justice is done for him. The motherhood aspect isn’t central to the story (so far), but it’s there.
In “Trouble on Tybee,” though, the bond of motherhood is very important to the storyline. The protagonist doesn’t have children of her own, but her own mother continues to protect her from beyond the grave.
In “Twinges,” the protagonist is a teacher and a mother who goes to great lengths to save her son from a psychotic killer.
In “Ticker Tape,” a Vietnamese mother works hard to provide a better life for her three children.
In “State of Georgia . . . and Other Stories,” Georgia, the protagonist of the novel in the collection, faces a sudden change in her life and then has to face her three adult children in different ways to get them to accept her new life, and in the short story called “Backyards,” a teenage girl is trying hard to connect with her mother who is drowning in depression and grief.
In “The Clearwater House,” the entire story hinges on one woman’s overpowering need to be a mother and the horrible choice she makes to become one.
When I was young, I never thought I’d want to be a mom, mostly because I’m not overly fond of babies, and I didn’t enjoy playing with dolls either. When I had my own two babies, though, naturally I changed my tune about babies — at least about my own.
Babies are wonderful, don’t get me wrong, but children are better because you can do fun things with them yet they can also do a lot of things on their own, but they haven’t reached the teenage phase of wanting to do everything on their own. I loved having my kids around to read them stories, to play with them, to take them places, to watch movies with them, to go swimming with them, and to do so many other things with them.
I miss having them here now that they’re all grown and off living their own lives, but I’m incredibly proud of the adults they’ve become.
It took a while to adjust to not having them here and to not structuring so much of my life around them, but I am reveling in the freedom I now have to write, read, paint, and do whatever I want to do all day.
However, being their mother is, by far, my greatest accomplishment, and I’d do it all over if I could. Being a writer is my second greatest accomplishment. When I go to do talks about my books, though, I always sneak in some details about my kids, and “The Clearwater House,” my first book, is dedicated to them.
I’ve heard that being a grandmother is an even better gig than being a mother, but I’m happy to wait a while on that. If I ever get the chance to be a grandmother, I’m sure I’ll agree, but I couldn’t be a grandmother if I weren’t a mother first, so I think I’ll always prize being a mother more.
In addition to my own two kids, I did “mother” seven exchange students, a year at a time, and I look on a few of them as family now — not so much as my kids, but rather as wonderful extensions to my family. Silvia, my first and who is from Mexico, has become my best friend over the years.
My daughter will officially start her career as a paleontologist in June, and my son is doing great things as a P.E. teacher and coach. Even though I won’t see either on Mother’s Day itself this year, I did just see my son at the district track meet where he was coaching, and I will see my daughter only a few days afterwards when I go to help her move.
Fortunately, my own mother is still around and keeping busy running her antique store. Her passion for the store that she opened at an age when others are retiring and that she’s still running all these years later is an inspiration and a daily reminder to keep pursuing my dream. We’re never too old to pursue our passions.
Since I will be very busy next week helping my daughter move from where she’s been living in Tennessee while getting her master’s degree to where she’ll be starting her career, you won’t hear from me — most likely.
I’ll leave you with a rough draft of a poem, or musing, I wrote two years ago this May after my daughter started having heart issues following getting the so-called covid vaccine which was required by her university work place. When Sam was born, the cord was wrapped so tightly around her neck (twice) that her heart slowed drastically with each contraction, and they had to do an emergency c-section to get her out, and when she was three years old, a dog attacked her so viciously that her ear had to be reattached, and she also had stitches right over the spot where her jugular is in her neck, but this day in May was the most frightened I’d ever been as her mother.
"My Daughter's Heart" I watched my daughter's heart beat on a screen today. I saw its valves flop open and closed, Witnessed the chambers constricting, Pumping her blood in an endless, Life-sustaining cycle. Its functions, its internal combustion, Normally hidden from view, Now on full display to me, to her, and To the anonymous ultrasound technicians. We're here because she's had palpitations And a tightening of the chest, never had before. She's only twenty-one. The cardiologist assures us they're benign, But . . . "Let's do an ultrasound to be sure." To be sure of what? I want to know. That the covid she had months ago didn't Permanently damage her most important organ? That the "vaccine" she got didn't harm her heart? These are scary times, and I'm a scared mother. No matter her age, she will always be my little girl. The little girl whose heart beat just fine for years, Whose heart was there, hidden away and protected By her ribs when I held her, rocked her, bathed her, Mothered her, soothed her, and carried her with me. Her heart was there when I played with her, read to her, Helped her get dressed, and tucked her in at night. It was there when I took her to school, answered her Endless questions, brushed her tangled hair, and Watched countless movies with her. It was there when She traveled abroad with me, volunteered summers At the zoo, learned to twirl a baton from me, and even When she became my student at school for years. It was there when she grew taller than me, smarter Than me, prettier than me, and better than me. Her heart was there when she excelled in school, Chose her vocation, left home for college, studied hard, And found her place in the world. Now I watch her heartbeat on a computer screen In a darkened room of a Lincoln hospital, and I'm afraid Of the four-chambered, pulsating thing I see. For all the external threats to my daughter's safety that I've worried about over the years, I'd never feared the Internal ones -- because she's young and healthy. Today, though, I am struck dumb with terror by the Heart's power and by my utter lack of it.
Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there. Whether you’ve given birth to your own or raised children you’ve adopted or fostered, you all rock. It’s by far the most challenging and demanding job on the planet, but it’s also the most satisfying and rewarding in the long run.
Until next time, which will probably be in a couple of weeks because I’m going to be doing as much mom stuff as I can for my daughter as she moves into this new and major part of her life.
Tammy Marshall
Love this!! Happy Mothers Day!! :)