I awaken early so I can get to my computer and write while the day is fresh and tranquil. In the midst of deep thought my phone rings and although I ignore it at first, I feel a tug at my heart because it might be my daughter, who phones most mornings — usually to report some progress her baby has made, like eating pudding with a spoon, or grunting a new sound she’s convinced is a word. I want to share in Abby’s joy. I treasure our closeness and savor our conversations. My voice and my words seem to jump start her day and I always want to be there for her.
Our relationship was not ideal when she was growing up — lots of teenage rebellion — lots of anger and impatience on my part, so I’m grateful for what we have today and no matter how deeply engrossed I am in writing, when I see her name on my caller ID I can’t ignore it. But, my creative momentum suffers
It was Abby. Baby Brooke looked adorable in her new outfit and she wants me to see her in it.
I again turn my attention to my beloved writing, and the phone rings. Caller ID indicates it’s my daughter-in-law, Andrea, and I always feel the need to respond to family members. She was faced with a job opportunity and had some decisions to make. We talked for a half hour and the conversation ended with her saying, “I’m so glad I called you, Mom. You were really helpful. I love you.”
Back to my writing when I hear the familiar ding, signaling that there is e-mail. I try to ignore it but my curiosity wins. It was from my other daughter-in-law, Nanci. She was having difficulty with an article she’d been writing for a nursing journal and needed some guidance. I wrote back my suggestions and she responded with a message from her three and six year olds saying that they love and miss me.
Once more I return to my writing and once again the phone rings. I see it’s Donna, my “adopted” daughter. Donna’s father and I had been in an exclusive relationship for eleven years and separated just six months earlier. But I inherited his two daughters who refer to me as their step mom, and four grandchildren who shower me with hugs and kisses and call me grandma. I desperately want to write, but Donna recently told me that I was the best gift her father ever gave her, so how can I ignore her call?
Today Donna is feeling desperate and isolated. A storm has left her with no electricity. Eight year old Samantha is going stir crazy with boredom and has requested that I come rescue her. I am not totally convinced that it is Samantha’s idea but the bottom line is that their little family is drowning and I, apparently, am holding the life raft.
I don’t feel like going out. I really want to write. But, instead I stammer and hem and haw and finally say, “Of course. Tell Sam I’ll pick her up at 12:30 and take her to lunch. That’s all I’ll have time for but it will give you both a break.”
But, when I arrive and the two year old runs up to me shouting “Gama, Gama,” hugs my leg, and jumps into the back seat of my car, and Donna comes out looking weary, and drained. How can I not invite them to join us?
Friends who know of my daily conflict tell me I must learn to say no. I explain that I have absolutely no problem saying no. My conflict arises out of my depth of caring and compassion for loved ones. It boils down to which decision I can best live with; being accessible to their needs and kicking myself for ignoring my own, or saying no to them and winning a shallow victory?
The barometer I have been using to judge a large part of my self worth is based on how many type written pages I can churn out by the end of any given day. The larger the number the greater my sense of accomplishment and gratification. Maybe, just maybe, what I need to accept is that my true value lies in the difference I apparently make in the lives of those who love and need me.
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