The Story of a Mother who went to school and volunteered and was an activist and also of her Boys in 2017. . .

I was born to a father who was almost 60. I was part of the next generation of children he would bring into the world. One of not too many short of 20. 

An afterthought, really. 

I came after so many children, and many came after me. 

I was born to a world turning more "progressive" but to a man who would never be because he was born in 1923.

I grew up.

It was both charmed and tragic depending on the day. Thus is the life of anyone growing up at any point in the world. It isn't special.

I was a mom to a spectacular little blue eyed, blond haired child when I had barely turned 19.

I had cried on the floor of an upstairs room where my grandmother lived when I found out.

And when he was born, I was swept away in the crying maniacs little gaze.

I went to college as a single mom without a thread of support, and I was also a young woman who was trying to offer something to her much younger sister and 3 brothers who came to her often.

Children are tomorrow and today all at once.

And later, when the next two came under a very difficult sky, I gave them everything I could.

Frankly,. . .I gave almost my life since we learned nothing about post teenage me could safely produce children. It was a fair risk.

I wanted strong, independent and deep thinking children. Originals.

I didn't offer a traditional education. Instead, I exposed them to all types of current events and thought processes, as well as a small farm life and sometimes what is simple, wild abandon and activism.

They have a mama who believed in breastfeeding them beyond the scope of the American norm, co-sleeping and baby wearing, but who also believed that once they were "made" and "capable," she had another calling. Maybe she believed it well before they were capable, but she knew to drag them along, then.

I've never made them first since they were beyond toddler-hood.

Sometimes I wonder what type of story this really is for them at all.

I've made them loved boys, though.

I've made them confident, safe and secure boys.

But I've never made them number #1.

They have a mama who knows she wasn't really meant to be a mother but is, anyhow. And she was a mother who loved them as truly as any could have, but. . .

And there was always this but. . .

They have been well loved, well hugged boys in the backseat while I picked up a starving horse
and 3 dairy goats on the way to the Capitol to talk about farmers and freedom.

They have a mama who will never be sure what she did was right, but she did it (regardless) and gave it her best. Whatever that was.

They have a mama who couldn't sleep and probably never will because she can't be sure those things were good enough. . .

Because she was born when her father was almost 60.

And she came after many children, and so many came after her. She came into a world becoming more "progressive" to a man who would never be because he was born in 1923.

And she is sure she will always carry weight around very sure she failed her children while being sure she did what was right by doing what would serve them long past childhood. . .though it will always seem a bit of a disservice.

And I suppose it all speaks, in one way or another to any mother.

Whether she worked or volunteered or stayed home. . .