Silver spoons and rubber scrapers

Mom got the mileage (and more) out of her rubber scrapers

Some kids are born with a silver spoon in their mouth, but I was raised on a rubber scraper (or “spatula,” as it is commonly known). I was born the twelfth of thirteen children, so my mom’s job of feeding her big brood was ever with her. No sooner would she finish cooking and serving and cleaning up after one meal than it was time to start making another meal. 

We were not wealthy, but Mom was a fabulous cook, homemaker, and manager, and she made sure we ate well and had enough. By the time I came along, she made the daily, gargantuan task of feeding us look pretty easy, but it was no small feat.

In fact, it took very careful planning and, it turns out, even some math skills. I remember flipping through her faded recipe cards and seeing, scratched in the margins, her calculations of how much each ingredient cost. I mean, who figures out the cost of a cup of flour today?

Ingredients were not the only thing well accounted for in our house. Rubber scrapers themselves were at a premium. We never seemed to have enough because the rubber would tear and the handles were always breaking, probably from Mom pushing them beyond their limits. She was resourceful, nonetheless. So, instead of tossing out the broken ones, she would replace their handles with ordinary table knives, and on she’d go, scraping her bowls and feeding her babies.

I have many warm memories of hanging around the kitchen where I’d watch Mom whiz from this counter to that cupboard, to the refrigerator, and back again, as she whipped up meals and treats. I especially liked the treats. If I timed things just right, I could elbow out a brother or two and be awarded the rubber scraper. 

My stomach wasn’t the only thing that got fed while licking the rubber scraper, either. A captive audience, I was also nourished by Mom’s good humor and insights, her enthusiasm for learning, and her deep love of people and of God.

Though my budget has never had to stretch as far as Mom’s had to, I still can’t resist scraping a dish for all it’s worth. It seems almost criminal to leave perfectly good food behind. Besides, you’d be amazed at how much you can scrape out of a bowl that looks mostly clean. Sometimes it’s a little more food, and other times it’s a little more conversation. 

Doing double duty

Opportunities to nurture pass quickly

One night about eight years ago, everyone was upstairs watching T.V. while I was downstairs cleaning. After about an hour, my youngest son Mark, who was five years old at the time, came trotting down to find me in the laundry room trying to remove stains. He tugged on me a little and said, “Leave it for tomorrow. We don’t want you to be alone down here.” 

As a young mother, being alone was something I actually fantasized about, longing for the day I would have enough time to really “get something done.” I was touched, though, that this little boy cared about me enough to leave the pull of television and seek me out. Mark has always been concerned for me. In fact, when he was old enough to go to school, he would pray specifically for me during morning prayers: “Please bless Mom that she won’t be lonely at home.” The truth is, when I finally did have some hours alone, I felt a sort of guilty pleasure; every day was a private party of sorts. So, both our prayers were answered: I was alone but not lonely.

Those years of caring for little ones have passed, and now I spend most days alone with that time I once coveted, having several hours a day to do what I need to. These days I can shop without having to load children and groceries in and out of the car; I can bake without having to let others take a turn stirring; I can clean without having to teach others how to stick to an unpleasant job. 

The irony, however, is that checking off tasks on my to-do list sometimes feels a little hollow. Why? Because I’m not doing double duty anymore. 

Before, I somehow managed to run the house while also nurturing little ones. Now that nurturing doesn't make up the more significant portion of my days' ingredients, at the end of the day those completed tasks somehow seem just a little less fulfilling and meaningful than they once did. Before, my demands were double but so were my rewards.

Fortunately, even as he has grown into a teenager, Mark has consistently invited me to play. Without him, I would have spent more time cleaning and less time playing Kings’ Corners and Connect Four. Without him, I would have missed many fun games of tennis and ping pong. I would not have had someone to play catch with in the rain. 

Most importantly, without Mark, I would have missed out on lots of good laughs and conversations. In short, he has reminded me that nurturing is still one of my key responsibilities; it just looks a little different than it did when I had young children. Even Grant, my busy sixteen-year-old, habitually finds me late in the evening to snuggle up for a chat and some motherly affection. Just last night he said, as I was rubbing his head in my lap, “I like these times, Mom.”

These opportunities to nurture are much less frequent than they once were, and soon I will have no tennis partner to play with or teenager to snuggle. So, in the meantime, I hope I’ll have the good sense to nurture whenever and however, I can. I hope young mothers struggling to manage a home and family also manage to recognize the double portion of love, satisfaction, and meaning that is rightfully theirs.