From the Relief Society Magazine, February 1966 –

A Time to Every Purpose

By Venda Brown Castleberry

It seemed strange to me later that Mother’s letter saying that she was coming to visit us should arrive the same day that I had an offer to go back to work at the dance studio. Ten years ago I had given up a promising career in dancing to marry Andy, and while I hadn’t exactly regretted it — still there had been times when I wondered if my only talent was not for dancing. The demands of my children seemed endless, and the thought of a career where one need only practice to see results seemed like heaven to me! I had been feeling increasingly unsuccessful as a homemaker.

Strange, I thought, reading Mother’s letter again, that she should come just when I’m wondering what to do — when I haven’t even talked to Andy. . . .

Mother had always come before to help me wait out the last dragging days before a new baby, and to see me off to the hospital, Andy beside me, knowing that all would be well at home. After the first time when I returned from the hospital, Mother would be there, before Andy had the car stopped, to take the new baby, suede-soft blanketed, from my arms.

“Let the others know how glad you are to see them before you introduce the new competition!” she would say.

The house would be heavenly clean, my bedspread turned back invitingly. I would lie there holding court like a queen, while my family “ooh-ed” and “aah-ed” and wonderingly touched the downy head and the wrinkled, pink, satin-soft feet of this, my newest production. Andy marvelled each time at the strength in the tiny curled fists, and “pooh-poohed” the idea that new babies can’t see!

Soon there would be muted sounds of dishes in the kitchen, and Mother would lure the children away for lunch. Then Andy and I would have a quiet time to plan this new life — in great detail.

“When she gets married,” Andy said when we brought our first daughter home, “her husband had better be good to her, or he will have to settle with me.”

Mother could always tell when I was able to take over the new baby; not until I was over the spell of inexplicable crying that climaxed the “baby blues,” and could bathe the new baby, and ward off the help of a toddler without shaking with nerves and weakness. Then she would bake a supply of cookies and Andy’s favorite boiled raisin cake: she would defrost the refrigerator, clean the oven, change all of the sheets, wash and put away the laundry, and shampoo all of the children’s hair — “to sort of give you a head-start,” she would say. I would find the reins of my home slipping into my hands, and Mother would take off, saying she’d spoiled the new baby as much as she could in two weeks — now we’d have to take over the spoiling!

Daddy died when I was in high school, and the first year I was away at college Mother and a friend began putting on lecture and music programs. They caught on right away, are in demand constantly, and receive numerous letters from people whom their program has inspired.

And then there’s I, I thought. The biggest challenge in my day is trying to have the breakfast dishes washed before Andy gets home at night!

Always before Mother had left her work to come when we needed her; this time she would be treated like a guest! I would get everything done up, so that she would not see that I was snowed under, and a failure!

When Robert Burns made his poetic statement about the best-laid plans of mice and men, he must have had me in mind! Ellen, my two-year-old woke up feverish and sick two days before Mother was to arrive — and there went my plans for an orderly visit! I rocked Ellen, sang “Bye Baby Bunting” until I was hoarse, for she would let nobody else touch her. I watched her shallow breathing, the way her eyelids fluttered open as she slept. In spite of the doctor’s reassurance and the antibiotics, I was sick with fear as I sponged the yellow curls back from her forehead. Watching a sick child like this, I always think of the pioneer mothers — no doctor — no antibiotics — no cold water even — and I wonder how it would be to have a child die, while you watched, helplessly!

My feeling of relief and joy that Ellen’s fever was gone, the morning Mother was to arrive, was followed by one of despair as I surveyed the state of the household! There was time for only a quick once-over after Andy had left for the airport.

Thank goodness for peanut butter and its (almost) complete protein! I thought, as I cleaned away the remains of meals the children had fixed for themselves. There was, of course, no baking done — no shopping either.

‘T wanted her to see me as a capable adult — maybe making a wise decision — not a failure abdicating because she can’t cut the mustard,” I said aloud as I scrubbed frantically at the bathroom bowl, and caught a glimpse of my stringy hair in the mirror. ”What’s the matter with me?”

Andy arrived with Mother, a sack of hamburgers, and a gallon of root beer, to usher in what was actually a typical two weeks at our house, but which seemed pretty bad to me — looking at it as I thought Mother must be looking.

In spite of our rule that the children were not to eat in the living room, the rug and furniture were, somehow, spotted. In spite of Andy’s and my knowledge of child psychology, Ellen still demanded — and got — her bottle. The pile of clothes to be ironed grew, in spite of the children’s wearing un-ironed play clothes. There was sand everywhere, from the constant trailing of children from the sand box to the bathroom — or to the refrigerator for popsicles and punch. Each day I arose with the resolve to get ahead of my work, but it was like being on a treadmill, with the children’s needs holding me back. When I had gained a little time, a crisis inevitably ate it up!

The last day of Mother’s visit the woman from the dance studio came to talk to me about going back to work. After she had left, I turned to Mother with a defiant air.

“I don’t care. Mother! You can see how we live! I can’t manage — the children just take too much out of me — anyone could do better — I could hire somebody to fix decent meals, keep the house straight! I don’t know what I do with my time. Oh, Mother, I wanted to do something creative with my life! I can’t see anything ahead but this feeling of always being behind — nothing to show for what I do! I keep wondering if the children will remember me as a mother who couldn’t cope.”

Mother was seated where she could look beyond me, out through the window. She said mildly now, “Turn around and look, dear. Don’t they look happy and healthy?”

I turned to see the yard full of children, swarming over the play equipment.

“Yes,” I said, “and the ones whose mothers work look just as happy and healthy as mine!”

Mother said thoughtfully, “There must be much their mothers miss, gone all day — things that come up — with children, teaching, rearing them — it is a long time — perhaps not in a lifetime — that we know how we have done.”

I could see that Mother was not going to advise me.

Mother was busy at her typewriter late that afternoon. I almost envied her, in there creating something to express herself, to give to the world.

Andy and I left the children with a baby sitter and took Mother to the airport. I felt lonely as she waved to us from the doorway of the plane. I would miss her good company — and I was vaguely disappointed that she had not helped me decide about taking the job.

Back home, I watched from the porch as the sitter walked the half block to her house. As I turned to go into the house, I saw a letter in the mailbox. It was from the dance studio. Without opening it, I stuffed it into my pocket.

I felt restless. I wished Mother had stayed another day — maybe we could have talked more about my going to work. I wandered into the guest room, and suddenly felt closer to Mother; the sweet scent of her cologne was there, the imprint of her hand, where she had fluffed the cushion in the chair. And propped against the dresser mirror was an envelope addressed to me. Ah, she hasn’t forgotten! I thought. We had always left letters to each other when we had something special to say. I lay across the bed and opened it. It was long — this must have been what she was typing this afternoon. This is what she had written, and it was right from one heart to another:

“… it is sweet to have a daughter, sweet to visit in her home, to see what a fine mother she is! It is the pay-off, believe me, for whatever it is that one gives!

“May I tell you a few of the countless memories of my visit — memories I take with me — and that give my life significance because you are my daughter?

“’I suppose you’re mad at me!’ I heard Chloe Ann say one day, when she had come from the store with treats for all of the children. ‘You told me to get something Ellen could eat — and I forgot she can’t chew wax.’ I hesitated a moment before answering her. ‘No-oo, I’m not mad at you. You made a mistake, but we don’t get mad at people for making mistakes! We all make mistakes — Heavenly Father sent us here to learn not to make them — we are all learning — He is pleased when each mistake teaches us something! ‘

“Ellen’s first summer out of doors could have been miserable — she was so afraid of ‘bugs.’ Her screams brought you on the run countless times — and then you made a project of helping her. You brought in a bright red box elder bug and put it on the window curtain. The children — especially wide-eyed Ellen — watched as you ‘petted’ him, and one by one, they found the courage to touch. The bug stayed there all day, with you picking Ellen up many times to look at his pretty color, his funny feelers, and the legs that were so tiny ‘they tickle little girls.’ You told the children that the greatest scientists in the world could not make even a tiny bug like that — look how Heavenly Father had made the outside — tougher than any plastic. The next morning when you were dressing Ellen you playfully walked your fingers over her tummy, her legs and arms, saying, ‘I’m a bug — I crawl on little girls and tickle them! What do you do when a bug crawls on you, little girl?’ Soon Ellen would giggle and say ‘I brush him off — like dis!’

“Jimmy was having trouble with the truth. You listened quietly to one of his fantasies one day, and then said, ‘Wouldn’t it be funny if that really happened! Of course it didn’t really happen, but it would make a good story; go on, write it all down, and name it ‘A Story by James Beardsley’! But when you tell something, be sure to ask yourself if it is true — or if it is makeup. If it is make-up you must always say so, and then you won’t forget which is the truth.’

“I should have liked to have a moving picture of you baking cookies with eight pairs of hands helping you! I wondered if you were longing for the days when you had the kitchen to your efficient self!

“Jeanie threw the checkers and board across the room when she had lost a game, and ran to her room crying. You followed and were gone for a long time. When she challenged me to a game the next day, I was apprehensive when I saw she was going to lose. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as she played gamely on, and I am sure it was your words she spoke. ‘It’s only a game — it isn’t fun when you get mad — everyone will still love you, even if you lose — that’s the way it goes; someone wins, someone loses every time — next time maybe I’ll be lucky!’ I was so proud of her, as she swallowed hard — and challenged me to another game.

“Watching television one night, the girls were dancing to the music, with stiff-legged, hopping steps. You were writing a shopping list, but you kicked off your shoes, joined the girls. ‘Oh, let me dance with you!’ you said. ‘That music just tells you to dance; doesn’t it? I’m going to be a tree in the wind! See how the wind bends me — first to one side, slowly — then around and around my trunk — then almost to the ground. . . .’ It was beautiful to see — their first consciously graceful movements!

“Oh, Patricia, there are too many precious memories! I don’t know where to stop recalling them! I wish you could see your days as I do — so very blessed!

“These are the difficult days — when you feel as if you are pulled and divided in a thousand directions, until there is nothing of you left! Days of purposeful confusion, when your home is a laboratory — a studio — where children are being shaped into men and women. Later, when they are gone, your house will be orderly — but it will be a museum of memories — not a dynamic laboratory where memories are being made!

“You said you had wanted to do something creative with your life. What could be more creative than what you are doing? To be the co-creator of a human being! To be the creative artist — to shape your creation into the most universally significant work of art — a good man! What is working with marble, or paint, or words, or sounds — or movement — compared with working with eternal, infinite souls? You are discouraged because you do not see your creation finished before your eyes — your genius credited by a signature; how could this be — when a soul is forever changing, developing — is never finished! Our Heavenly Father, who sees the end from the beginning, does not, I am sure, see your work as you see it now. . . .”

I could not read the end of Mother’s letter. I lay, face down, crying into the bedspread. “Oh, Mother — you’re still making me grow up — You always did make me feel so — so big — better than myself — so valuable, that I never could go back to too easy things — ” I felt stronger, not so pushed — as if there might be a patterned purpose to the crazy kaleidoscope of my life.

I pulled the curtain aside, looked out at the play equipment abandoned in the moonlight. “Laboratory!” I mused to myself. “Climb, stretch, yell, quarrel, dig, learn!”

I got up, went into the hall, saw the crookedly lettered sign on my big girls’ door: “Kids — stay out!!! Mommy this doesn’t mean you.” I nodded my head. “Studio. Women being fashioned!”

I opened my boys’ door. There they were, asleep on the floor, a quilt under them, their dog between them! I had told them their dog was not to sleep in their bed. But of course— he would be lonely on the floor by himself! “Do not disturb!” I said to myself. “Men undergoing creation — good men — strong men — compassionate men.”

The little girls’ room was a shambles. They had played themselves into exhaustion, and then had fallen asleep at opposite ends of one bed. Tied to the bed by a ribbon sash, the rocking horse was draped with all the clean play clothes he could hold. Their bedtime cookies had been moistened with water and portioned out on play dishes, with crumbs and water everywhere. How does a baby sitter turn into a mother, with an ear for such bedtime hi-jinx? I wondered, as I went for a towel.

“Hey, stop prowling and come keep me company!” Andy called from the living room, and I joined him there, my feet curled under me, his arm holding me snug beside him on the couch. The letter from the dance studio, still in my pocket, poked me. I pulled it out and tore it up.

“What are you tearing up, sweetie?” Andy asked, as I ripped across a scrap that said “If we do not receive an answer within ten days. . . .”

“Oh, it’s an offer this company made me — ” I said, ” — as a matter of fact, a pretty good offer! But suddenly tonight this doesn’t seem like the time for it, at all!”