As a new wife, it was my pleasure to grocery shop for my new husband. I regarded the experiences of choosing fine cuts of meats, fresh organic vegetables, exotic fruits, and savory cheeses as just one more gift bestowed on my front porch of life. My husband, a treasure all by himself, would jump at the sound of our car arriving in the driveway. Before I could open the car door, he'd have it open and be leaning inside for a quick kiss. Without hesitation he would turn to the back seat and swiftly gather up all the groceries into one arm (my purse in the other), turn in time to kick my door closed and still have time to step ahead to hold the door to the house open for me. As I made my way in to the house, my attention never strayed far from my freshly manicured nails; other times, I sifted through the mail as I idly walked through the front door. If there were more groceries than one trip could afford, I paid no mind. Hubby would grab them and bring them to the kitchen. Life was gentle.
Years passed and doggone it, so did chivalry. I remember the first time I drove into the driveway after my usual grocery spree. Naively I sat for a minute longer than usual. I believe I turned to organize the contents of my purse or something. I wasn't waiting. But, looking back, -- I was. When a comfortable amount of time passed, I got out of the car feeling a bit of confusion. I retrieved the first load of groceries and made my way into the house. "Hi babe, I'm home." Silence. I walked through the kitchen to the living room and found my knight huddled over an X-box remote controller. "Babe, hi--just got home with the groceries." I said standing behind him. "Gooood", he responded without looking up, "Did you remember to get tomato juice?--my turn to make Bloody Marys before the game today". "Yep" I said and turned, still expecting him to join me. He didn't. I brought the rest of the groceries into the house. Never an unkind word was spoken; not necessary, there was no anger.
Parenthood introduced a whole new element. My precious, precious cargo! I wanted to hold my babies! I cooed into their faces as I buckled them in and out of their car seats. I didn't want just anyone touching my cherubs' toys or personal belongings. I was in Heaven as I proudly walked the promenade of motherhood. I didn't notice the changes taking subtle shape.
Fast Forward....Eight Years...Two Daughters...and One Knight (with slightly tarnished armor)...
I am now a pack mule. No kidding. I even refer to myself as one! Getting out of the car these days requires a sturdy back, strong arms, the ability to balance multiple things with multiple parts of my body and the patience of Mother Theresa. The usual scene goes something like this: The car pulls into the driveway. My husband has been missing from this scene for years, so I don't even hesitate. Before the kids can reach for the latch on their car seats, the neighborhood kids are beckoning them away to their game. I literally jump aside as my daughters scoot by. In passing each reminds me: "Don't forget....." and they list prizes from the day's events: the toys they couldn't leave the house without, art projects from their day at preschool, and most certainly their beloved worn to rags blankets and stuffed toys. And I always say with as much loving sarcasm as I can muster -- "Don't worry, the pack mule will get it"! -- And with all the innocence of little girls, they laugh as they turn to their friends and say "Oh, Mom, you're soooo funny!"
Mothers don't just become pack mules....mothers train to be pack mules and I admit it has taken me a while to "get it." I believe the strongest message came to me as I made my way into our house after an outing. Flanked with groceries, toys, blankies, and articles of clothing I glanced up to see my reflection grasping the butt-end of my daughter's beloved stuffed dog "Pinkie" with my teeth. My gait had been slowed as I was deftly navigating my youngest daughter's trike inside the door with my foot. Good Lord! I AM a pack mule.
I believe life is a series of lessons. My moment in the mirror taught me a lesson. Funny as it was, I stopped calling myself a pack mule--for two reasons: (1) I am NOT a pack mule and (2) my youngest daughter got a kick out of loading up the pack mule (me!). Re-training has begun. These days we're learning to share the responsibilities of living together. Each daughter is responsible for her own belongings. "Bring it along if you must," I say "but remember, you are the one to carry it back into the house". We've had some unhappy moments when Pinkie isn't around at bed time and it requires a quick trip to car to get him tucked in for the night! Everyone is responsible to bring one bag of groceries inside and oh, they struggle as their friends call out -- "Come play!"
The transition has been slow but re-training is never easy. My husband and I never discussed my pack mule revelation, but I know he's watched. Just yesterday, I pulled up into the driveway with the car packed--from around the corner of the house, he appeared and without a word, opened the back door and began to help unloading the days' treasures--first our girls, then the groceries. I swear I could see something shiny under his shirt.
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