The Real Truth in Advertising

by Julie

The clicking staccato of my keyboard is at times the only sound that infiltrates my brain for hours on end in my neatly manicured office. I think my heart has given over to following the rhythm of that beat versus any ancient version of its own. Just over the lid of my laptop, they watch me. Gorgeously stylized black-and-white images of the two creatures I live for - my son and daughter. I wonder what they're doing now. My daughter is probably outside at recess and my son is probably just going down for a nap. As I let my mind drift the 45 minutes drive toward my suburban home - my life, my loves, I force myself back to the task at hand. A spreadsheet, an unknown deadline, a mundane, but "critical" task.
"They're fine," I reassure myself. "We really are blessed with wonderful schools. What would I do without such excellent childcare."
And I hold back a tear.

Why didn't my mother tell me? I can still hear the Enjolie perfume ad on tv--she could bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never ever EVER let him forget he was a man. I would glance at my mother in her worn housecoat. I would study the meager home in which I was raised. I would look at my own hand-me-down clothes and sulk. "If only MY mom could bring home the bacon, that would really be something."

To be just like the Enjolie mom - that was the dream. And my mother let me dream it. She supported me and urged me on, just like she was supposed to. Just like Phil Donohue told her to. But she did it smiling from her house coat. Surrounded by her children who were safe in her care, never more than a hug away.

Why didn't she tell me that the reason for her smile was her simple willingness to accept what truly made her heart sing. She was a mother, and her life allowed her to relish it.