I am blessed to be the mother to two wonderful, imaginative, musical, intelligent, caring, loving and compassionate boys.

I am committed to making their world a better place, one breath at a time. My world, their world, our world.

I want them to know that they are part of a larger world, outside of our town and our state. So whether we can afford it or not, we travel.

So far, they have been to Florida, Texas, Virginia, Washington DC, North Carolina, South Carolina, all over New England and New York City.

Two years ago, we traded homes with a family in Ireland for three weeks. I’d traveled abroad, but never as a solo adult, and I was nervous about taking my then seven and nine year olds out of the country by myself. But I had the opportunity, so how could I not?

We arrived on a Thursday. On Friday, after a day of adventures, learning how to drive on the other side of the road and exploring what lies around Galway, I tucked the boys into bed and climbed into my own, feeling proud of myself.

Within a few minutes, my seven year old came to me saying he couldn’t breathe. He was wheezing, and his inhaler was in the second floor bathroom.

With the Zyrtec.

In my house in the States.

My son is allergic to dust. We’ve never needed an epi-pen because anaphylactic shock was never a concern for him; he reacts with itchy rashes and eyes. Generally, Zyrtec is all he needed. He had an inhaler, although he’d never been officially diagnosed with asthma, because he is susceptible to wheezing when he gets sick. He wasn’t sick.

Several things went through my mind simultaneously: it was 11pm on Friday night. I knew roughly where the hospital was, but it was 30 minutes away. I hadn’t driven in the dark in Ireland yet. My ex would kill me if I came home with only one child. His meds are in New England. I’m in Ireland.

Oh crap.

I decided to try the old croup treatment: 20 minutes in a steamy bathroom followed by 5-10 with his face in the refrigerator. Thankfully, after one cycle, the wheezing stopped, he could breathe and all was fine.

The next morning, we bought Zyrtec at the pharmacy, and although we had many more adventures (vomit in our host’s car, me almost getting hit by a cab while crossing the street in Dublin as my sons watched, losing my oldest for 20 minutes at the ruin of an old church and more) we needed no trips to the hospital.

At the end of three weeks, we three returned to the States alive, I was still sane, and I had a stronger sense of what I can do as a person and mom.

I want them to be exposed to all arts. We go to museums and the theater when we can. Free when money is tight (summer shows on the green are the best), and to the city for events when money is not. If I think, “How can one live without having seen this?”—I find a way to make it happen.

Make it happen has become my mantra.

They ask, “What are we doing next?” rather than “Do I have to?”

I have taught them manners and chivalry and praise their compassionate acts. We’ve been practicing “ladies first” since my kids were three and five. After doing so for about six months, my youngest said, “Why is it always ladies first? When can it be boys first?” I told him that’s the way it is and will always be and to get used to it.

One day last winter an elderly woman ahead of us was having trouble with the door as we were leaving a store. I looked at my sons and said, “ladies first.” My 10 year old went ahead and held the door for her. The look of appreciation on her face and her clearly deeply felt thank you was worth every “ladies first” reminder.

I have had many doors dropped on me over the years and rarely wait for anyone to open a door for me. Teaching them to hold doors for women has taught me to accept a door being held for me. We are both learning from this lesson.

I am a tireless defender and supporter of all of their interests: music, sports, rocket design. Both are musicians. I am their cheerleader as well as enforcer of practice schedules. They are learning responsibility and perseverance, developing character, standing up for themselves and what they need, as well as developing the ability to play instruments and sing. I cheer on the sidelines. I provide the space for their imaginations to soar.

I give them space to play and create and explore, without overscheduling their lives. The downside is there are few kids in the neighborhood to play with who have free time as well. (But that’s a whole other conversation.)

When I am with them, I try to focus my attention on them and not work, the phone or the house—the myriad daily life distractions. I frequently come up short here. But I’m not perfect; I’m a work in progress.

Do they bicker? Pick on each other? Make me crazy? Of course they do. Some days my Mommy Card comes and goes. Some days I get it “right.” Some days, I end the day with an apology. I am sometimes gripped with self-doubt, wondering if I am a “good mother” or if I am giving them fodder for the analyst’s couch when they are adults. But I always try, and my children know their mother is human. That’s a gift I give them.

When they hold the door for all women and not just me, when they stand up for kids being bullied at school, when I hear, “I love you mom” for no reason at all, when they argue about who gets to sit on the right side of me on the sofa, when I hear them laughing and playing, I know in my heart that yes, I’m pretty badass.

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Editor: Travis May

Photo: Author’s Own