It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity. —Albert Einstein
For all our moms are asked to do, keeping up with their children’s technology can be one of the most challenging
The geek in me was very excited this past week when IBM announced they are allowing public access to their new quantum computer. We are on the verge of the next huge leap forward in computing technology. What this means for research and scientific advancement is mind boggling. Our children will understand more not only about the what but the why of the universe than we ever thought to question. This is a great move forward for everyone.
Well, maybe not everyone. One of the biggest challenges moms have is trying to keep up with their children’s technology. This may not be as much of an issue for young mothers just yet; as long as technology stays at a fairly steady pace we can learn along with the kids. But when it takes a significant leap, such as it did in 1984 and is about to do again, the older we are the more challenging it can be to keep up.
The problem is not necessarily unique to moms, but the sad fact is that most women born in the 20th century have not had as much access to match, science, and technology education as have men. All three have long been considered the domain of men, despite the fact that some of the most brilliant discoveries have been made by women. As a result, many of our moms have difficulty understanding the technology that seems second nature to their children or grandchildren.
My mother was one of those people. Despite being a well-educated teacher with a masters degree, when it came to computers and more advanced technology, not only did she have difficulty understanding how they worked, she didn’t really want anything to do with them. She was proud of the fact that my younger brother was a computer whiz and appreciated what we were able to do with them, but technology was the one area she was happy to leave alone.
When Poppa’s eyesight failed him, we finally convinced them that a computer was a good thing. My brother successfully convinced Poppa that the computer could increase the size of the type so that he would be better able to read. We also introduced them to email by sending them pictures of their grandsons, who were always being adorably cute. Poppa loved it, and Mother loved getting the pictures, but she waited until Poppa printed them out. She wasn’t going to bother looking at them online.
Then came the day Poppa was no longer there. A couple of days after his funeral, I found Mother sitting at the desk staring at the computer. “Do you want to check email?” I asked, knowing she didn’t know how.
“The funeral home gave me a link to an online condolence page,” she said, “but I don’t even know how to turn the stupid computer on.” Tears were, again, streaming down her face. Losing her partner of over 42 years was difficult enough, but being faced with all the things he did that she didn’t understand was hitting her hard. I pulled up a chair and sat next to her. After a couple of hours, she could at least check email, enter the URL the funeral home had given her, and visit a couple of websites for widowed pastor’s wives.
Mother only lived six more months, unfortunately, but in that length of time, she finally became comfortable enough to save the photos we emailed to her without having to print them all, and even found a couple of online games that she didn’t hate.
I think of all that has been developed over the past 14 years, though, and wonder how well she would have adapted. She was okay with the first simple cell phone they had, but given how that smartphones often frustrate me I can only imagine that one would come close to making her curse. She might have gotten on Facebook, perhaps (after a lot of coaching), but there’s no way she would have touched any of the other social media apps.
Keeping up with technology is rough for any of us who are not actively involved in development, but for someone whose primary frame of reference is significantly less digital, even what we might consider simple technology like setting a digital clock or working a remote control, can be daunting. So, since this is Mother’s Day, why not take a moment and see if your mom or grandmother or great-grandmother needs help with technology forced upon them. Check their security settings. Make sure they’re not giving out their passwords. Be gentle and loving.
Just, uhm, maybe consider keeping her off Tinder. She doesn’t need to see that.
A Mother’s Beauty
Mother’s love is peace. It need not be acquired, it need not be deserved. —Erich Fromm
Mother’s Day brings plenty of memories, but we forget the beauty sacrifices mothers make for us.
I typically avoid the topic of mothers on Mother’s Day, partly because that’s what everyone is talking about and I’m not sure I can, or should, compete for your attention. Mother’s Day is also a little sad now that my own mother is gone. Some days it is better to let others do all the talking.
We romanticize our mothers in a sense, not that such a perspective is inappropriate, but our love for our mothers sometimes keeps us from seeing the depth of a mother’s sacrifice for her children. She wouldn’t bring it up, of course, mothers rarely do. But what we remember of our mothers is seen through the perspective of a child. We don’t see what all went on in a mother’s life before she had children and everything she willingly gave up for us.
There aren’t many pictures still around of my mother when she was young. Her family was dirt poor and didn’t have a camera so the only pictures are those someone else took and gave her. What I see in those few pictures, though, is someone with a quick smile, sparkling eyes, and curly jet-black hair. I can understand why Poppa found her attractive. She was petite, like her other mother, with her father’s slim build; enough curve to be feminine, but not so much as to appear inappropriately sexual, which was apparently a thing back in the 1950s. She wore bobby socks with loafers and heels and gloves as was common at the time. Poppa said she was very prim and proper, very strict in her etiquette, but more than anything, he said she was beautiful.
Sure, everyone thinks their mother is beautiful, but we don’t see the same beauty that our fathers did. We see someone who is loving and caring and made sacrifices for us so that we could have everything we needed. Remember, though, that our fathers knew our mothers before we did and they saw her beauty in a different light. They saw a side of a mother’s beauty that we’re not all that comfortable discussing. Despite everything that might have happened later, all the arguments and divorces, the illnesses and emotional issues, before we were born our fathers thought our mothers were sexy. They wouldn’t likely use that word in front of us, but that’s what they were thinking.
I occasionally come across someone who has nude photographs of their mother taken before they were born. We don’t often think of artistic nude photography having existed much before Helmut Newton, but it most certainly did, and was secretly very popular. The difference was that they kept those photos to themselves. There was no Internet or social media on which to share them, so rarely did anyone else ever know they had been taken and it certainly wasn’t something they would just show to the kids. Typically, the photos are found by the adult child while helping their mother go through things later in her life. They elicit all knew stories about a side of our mothers we never considered: they were sexy.
Then, we came along and spoiled it all. The effect might not have happened immediately. Some women’s bodies handle childbirth better than others. Others, though, never lose the weight they put on carrying you. Hips that widened to facilitate your delivery didn’t snap back in place. If you kicked the wrong thing while you were swimming around in all that amniotic fluid, you likely created a physical problem your mother had to endure the rest of her life. She was thrilled to nurse you and cuddle you close, but because of that her breasts sag and she never looked the same in a swimsuit again.
You gave her stretch marks and those dark circles under her eyes from 18-plus years of never getting enough sleep and worrying about the trouble she knew you were getting into, even if she didn’t know exactly what it was. You killed her arches as she ran after you in shoes that were not meant for running. Her joints eventually became stiff and arthritic from all the times she put herself in unnatural positions to find that toy you had just dropped, or teaching you how to play leap frog, or picking you up and carrying you from the playground after you fell from the swing, again.
Before you were born, that lady you now call your mom paid more attention to how she looked when she went out. Her ensemble was carefully put together, even if it was more bohemian and less Chanel. She might have even worn makeup and had her nails done. After you came along, though, she was happy if what she was wearing didn’t have any fresh stains and if everything matched it was more by coincidence than design. Your mother’s stylist thought you were cute, but secretly hated you because your mother went from trying out different cuts and colors to short and easy-to-manage.
After you came along, your mother didn’t go out with friends as often, didn’t travel as much, gave up on trying to fit into Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and damn sure wanted to make sure there was sufficient coverage between her and her Calvin’s. Almost everything that had gone into making her so physically desirable to your father either you ruined or she had to give up to care for you, except for one thing: Love.
And that’s what we remember on Mother’s Day: her love. After all, that’s what is important, right? Nothing else matters, at least, not now. A mother’s beauty isn’t defined by how “hot” she looks, how many heads she once turned, or how many hearts she once broke. A mother’s beauty is defined by how she could kiss a boo-boo and make the pain go away, or how she knew exactly when you needed her to make those special pancakes, or how she could mend a broken heart then help you plot revenge. She likes that definition.
Mothers don’t care about what they’ve given up for you. The love you and, in the vast majority of situations, would do everything all over again (with the benefit of a little wisdom from the experience). She loves you, you love her, and that makes everything beautiful enough for her. But don’t you ever forget that she did make those sacrifices. I’ll tell you what she might not: you owe her. Big.
A poet, whose name escapes me at the moment, once said that a mother’s beauty is defined is defined by the grace and compassion of her children. Your mother gave up a lot for you. Make her beautiful, damnit.
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