We could all use a little help, but Kerry Trotter is feeling like a lot of help is in order these days. She's due with her second child any day now, and is exercising her maternal right to worry needlessly, needfully, excessively, etc. But St. Gerard Majella, the patron saint of unborn babies and expectant mothers, whose feast we celebrate today, is waiting in the wings.
I, in my addled last month of pregnancy, could use all the help I can get.
Some recent requests: hoisting my toddler daughter into the car, giving her baths, feeding the dog (the smell of dog food — more repugnant now than ever), remembering appointments, picking up clumsily dropped items, getting out of chairs, etc., etc.
I need help with all of it.
Luckily, I have an incredible husband who, not only intercedes on my behalf, does so enthusiastically. He’s crouching, bathing, hoisting, feeding and recalling for two these days, since his normally has-it-together wife can’t seem to get out of the bathroom long enough to tend to the needs of her kin.
Too much information?
Anyway, such is the ninth month, where the anticipation of baby grows even larger than the belly itself, and the discomfort of pregnancy has come to a climactic head (pun intended) that serves as robust incentive to get the show (again, pun intended) on the road. This is all by incredible design, as that second trimester “glow” and the delight of creating life needs to give in order for mom to really want that baby out. If it were all clear skin and the muffin top-stifling powers of maternity jeans, pregnancy could be a four-, or even five-trimester affair. But that feeling of a teeny tiny foot stomping your bladder like it was a barrel of grapes (mmmm, wine…) is fueling my eagerness for her arrival, and she, too, I imagine is eager. Quarters are getting a little cramped, and I’m sure the thought has occurred to her more than once: “I shoulda brought some reading material.”...
The smallest offers of grace are often the most profound, as Kerry Trotter learned last weekend, when forgiveness, understanding and a daughter's love played out in one small but moving vignette. Read on for the little lessons of love we can appreciate on Mother's Day.
Running the gauntlet of servers toting piping hot dishes of eggplant parmesan and chicken cacciatore, a gaggle of starry-eyed date nighters, and some down-to-business foodies waiting for tables, I caught my toddler daughter as she lunged out of my arms. It was nearing her bedtime, our meals at the bustling Italian restaurant had not arrived, and she wanted out.
So we were heading out.
I buried my slight annoyance that our shrimp scampi appetizer had just arrived, and that my husband, visiting mother-in-law and I were sharing boisterous, interesting conversation. My daughter needed to run around outside and I drew the short straw. This is mothering, I thought, get used to it.
As we walked down the few steps to the front door, I wrangled my squirrely baby in one arm while holding the door open for two women heading inside. They in no way indicated that they were grateful I went out of my way to be polite, much less even noticed how this door was mysteriously being opened for them.
I began to fume at their gall, and I felt a not-so-infrequent burst of hot headedness consume me. I snapped, but in a most passive-aggressive way.
“You’re welcome!” I barked, letting the contempt in my voice echo to a bassy thunder in the narrow staircase...