If you asked people what I was good at, they'd probably say I was a loyal friend, talented artist or a good writer. Depending on the last portrait I'd done or the latest article I'd written, I may or may not agree.

If you asked me what I thought I was good at, I'd say, "I've been a good mother."

When I was twelve I spent the summer caring for a six-week old and her two-year old brother. I enjoyed every minute. I was more than ready to start a family a couple years after getting married.

I read everything I could get my hands on about prenatal care and how to prepare for the birth of our first child. (As if anything can actually prepare you for that.)

Penelope Leach was my best friend, and I consulted her often.

I remember singing, "Jesus loves me," to my children before they were born, and moments after their birth, singing it to them again. There's nothing compares to that moment you bond with your baby, nursing them, their eyes fixed on yours, as their tiny hand wraps around your finger.

Years later the tables have turned and some might say, my kids have me wrapped around their fingers.

Of course I'm kidding, but as most mothers would agree, when our children are happy, we're happy, so we do what we can to help their lives run smoothly.

Years of early morning swim practices, piano lessons, PTA meetings, calls at three in the morning to drive them and friends home from a party, celebrations and disappointments too, are all jobs we signed up for when we became parents.

I enjoyed almost all of it.

When my daughter left for university, followed by her brother two years later, my friends thought I'd be lost. They were prepared for a deep depression to take hold, but I think I shocked everyone. As much as I missed hearing my son play the piano and late night talks with my daughter, I was happy to move on to the next phase of my life, and excited for them to move on with theirs.

I'll admit, on occasion, I feel a little lost and sad thinking I'm no longer needed, but then something happens to remind me, that's just not the case.

Once I woke up to a message on my computer from my son. It read,  "My life is over."

I didn't panic. If his life was really over, I figured it would have warranted a phone call. It turned out he discovered he was losing his hair, like his dad years earlier; nothing some understanding and reassuring words wouldn't help.

Recently my daughter called almost in tears. She was angry with a guy who interviewed her and told her that in today's job market, finding a position in her field was next to impossible. She panicked. She was graduating in a few weeks and had to be out of her house. "Where will I go? Where will I put my furniture?" she asked.

Her father didn't help when he answered, "You'll move your furniture to an apartment, wherever you get a job."

"What if I don't get a job, or what if I get a job back home?" she asked.

"Then you'll move your furniture to an apartment back home," was his response, clearly indicating that moving back into our house was a last resort.

I reassured her and told her not to worry, everything would fall into place; secretly shuddering at the thoughts of her furniture being crammed into our house.

We returned from a trip two weeks later to find things had fallen into place. She landed a fantastic position in her field, in another city. It was great news but created a whole new set of concerns. Suddenly, she was faced with cramming two weeks of school assignments into one, finding a reliable vehicle and make moving arrangements, since the job started in a week!

We came to her aid and after she arranged financing, we took her car shopping and she purchased her first car. She asked if I'd go with her to shop for work clothes. We both knew she didn't need me to go with her, but she wanted me to. It's moments like those that reassure me I've done something right as a mother.

We spent the next day like girlfriends, her trying on dozens of outfits while I grabbed different colours and sizes. For a moment I lapsed into the 'mother' role, making a suggestion about her living arrangements. She quickly corrected me.

"Mom, I appreciate your advice but you can't tell me what's best for me, because you're not me. I know what's best for me."

If she didn't know, I realized, she'd learn.  I switched back to 'girlfriend' mode and grabbed another outfit for her, trying to remember if I was ever a size zero.

As I hugged her goodbye, she said she couldn't believe how fast the last four years had gone. "I can't believe it's over," she said sadly.

"It's not over." I corrected her. "It's just beginning." I handed her an envelope to open on her first day of work.

I drove home marveling at what a beautiful young woman she'd become, recalling moments in her life that stood out to me. Like the time she swam the freestyle in record time, winning the relay for her team, hugging her opponent the moment they got out of the pool.

I remembered the courage she showed when going into surgery when she was just seven, and her strength years later when doctors told her her swimming career was over. I saw her determination when she played a school basketball game while wearing a face-mask to shield her nose, broken in a car accident only days before. I recalled her beauty and grace as she walked down the stairs wearing her first prom gown.  I remembered how she could always make me smile, like the time I answered the phone after midnight, to hearing her wailing along to our favourite song, at a Rhianna concert.

She swam and ran track and field for nine years. When she attended a swim meet or a race, I'd cut out a duck shape on yellow paper, and write, Lucky Duck, luv ya, on it and slip it in her bag. Once when she attended nationals she opened her bag to find twenty little ducks. They were to remind her of how lucky she was to be doing what she was doing. She didn't need reminding, I suppose, since she once told me she always thought of her grandmother when she raced; a woman on oxygen twenty-four hours a day who would have given anything to run or swim. The ducks were for luck, and more importantly to remind her that I was always rooting for her.

The last time she received one was when she opened the care package I'd sent when she moved into residence at university.  I wondered what her reaction would be when she opened the envelope I'd given her for her first day of work, and found another.

I hoped it would remind her that although she was all grown up and may not rely on me anymore, I would always be there, rooting for her in everything she did. My job as a mother was far from over.

I was reminded of that when we arrived home. There was a message on the computer from my son. It read, "Bad day. Been questioning what I'm doing with my life."

Oddly enough his message made me smile, as I reached for the phone.

When I say I've been a good mother, it's not so much what I've done, but what my children have become; compassionate, honest, motivated, determined young adults.

I haven't raised them on my own.  I've been fortunate to have parents and in-laws who've been outstanding role models, and a husband who's been a wonderful father.

Regardless, Motherhood is like life. You get back what you put into it, and looking at my kids I'd have to say, I've come out way ahead.

Brianna Popsickle

Observations and reflections on life, and the people around me; written as a mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend, and neighbour.

Artist. Writer. Woman. - Struggling to re-appear after years of confinement in a suburban prison.

Briannapopsickle (at) live.com

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