Six Lessons Learned from My ‘Other Mothers’ 

My mother's best friend, my best friend's mother, assorted neighbors and a handful of other women have served as "other mothers" in my life. Some taught me specific skills; from others, I learned by observing how they chose to live.  

Like my own wonderful mother, all these women are gone now. Mother's Day is the perfect time to honor them by recalling the lessons learned.   

Though my best friend and I reminded each other that junior high does not last forever, in the early days of adolescence, Susan and I worried that we weren't popular enough to ever attract boyfriends. 

Susan's mother, a beautiful woman, told us that when she was in high school, boys lined up around the block, eager to date her. We were in awe. Helen didn't promise us that same scenario, but offered what she considered to be a comforting maxim: "For every pot, there is a lid." (Several, it turned out!)  

When we headed off to college and took dating more seriously, Helen instructed us on the art of staying sober at parties. "Your dates will bring you strong drinks," Helen predicted. "Sip the first one. Pour the second one into a potted plant. And carry the third drink around for the rest of the evening." 

Jo, my mother's best friend, accompanied me on practice drives once I had my learner's permit and was enrolled in driver's education class. Mom just wasn't comfortable with the task, so we both were grateful to Jo.  

A decade later, my mother died suddenly in her sleep. I reached my parent's house just after my dad called with the news, and I watched as the ambulance drove away with my mother's body. Daddy was in the house, seated at the kitchen table and unable to think what to do next. At 26, I didn't know either, so when I suggested we call Jo to help us, my dad agreed. 

She set aside her own deep grief and drove right over. First, Jo cried with us. Then she made breakfast and dozens of phone calls, including to a funeral home, both my parents' workplaces and even some relatives and friends. That was a powerful lesson in how to lend strength, even when under personal duress.   

Because my infant son was born with a shortage of doting grandmothers, a neighbor — a retired pediatric nurse with no children of her own — was thrilled to step into that role.  

How thrilled? Arriving home from the hospital, I saw Anita and her husband, Slim, standing in the driveway, clutching armloads of toys and a sink-sized yellow bathtub, eager to meet my newborn and so proud to be embraced as extended family.   

Anita loved my son, and genuinely enjoyed his company all through his formative years. For me, she also provided important insight into aging, including the conversation when one day she compared her time-worn hands to my youthful ones.  

I paid for lessons from one Other Mother, a clinical psychologist I saw while adapting to a divorce. After I listed the many expectations I'd set for my new circumstance, Trudy gently suggested that I consider lowering them, to make my life more manageable during a stressful time.  

I remember being startled that as a person suddenly fully responsible for myself, I could do that — and I did. Since then, I have reminded myself often that only I can remove pressure I've placed upon myself.  

At 50, I moved into a condo bustling with Other Mothers, primarily widows in their 60s and 70s. At first, I wondered what I was doing among them, but over time, I discovered the building was the perfect place for informal lessons on aging from the experts — Bebe, Betty, Rae, Thelma and Sylvia.  

Rose was another. I met her husband, Harold, before I met her. Soon after they moved in, one day I saw Harold bringing groceries in through the front door in our lobby. A half-gallon of ice cream was clearly visible in one bag, and Harold carried a six-pack of root beer. 

I pounced.  

"I love root beer floats — when should I come over?" I teased. Harold laughed, and invited me over later that afternoon to meet his wife and enjoy a root beer float. Despite our age difference of 25 years, Rose's warmth, her wisdom and our mutual delight in our growing friendship brought us close.  

For almost 10 years, Rose and I walked in the pool at the condo complex, talking about matters large and small. We also shared occasional meals — including Rose's signature goulash — and to this day, I miss her fresh-baked mandel bread, similar to Italian biscotti. That, and her beautiful smile. 

Esther, another condo resident, was another close friend. She spoke often about how her conventional background had been punctuated with occasional surprises. After becoming widowed a third time, on impulse Esther drove alone from St. Louis, Missouri, to Big Sur on the coast of California, where she intended to take workshops at Esalen, founded in 1962 as the home to the human potential movement. 

"I'd never done anything like that in my life," Esther said. "When I finally got there, I realized that I could go on, and would, in spite of everything, even without attending a workshop. I turned around and drove back home."   

As a married woman, Esther had lived in a sprawling three-story home in a St. Louis suburb, in a posh high-rise on the Atlantic coast in Florida and in a spacious modern house back in St. Louis. When we met, her one-bedroom condo was the smallest place she'd ever lived.  

Years later, learning how to downsize as I prepared to move from my 1,700-square-foot condo to an apartment half that size in San Francisco, I asked Esther whether she ever missed all the belongings she had left behind through the years.  

"I don't miss what's gone — I probably don't remember half of it," she said, laughing. Picking up one of her treasured glass paperweights displayed on her coffee table, Esther added, "At my age and my stage, I just enjoy what I have." 

I remain grateful to my multiple Other Mothers, and am so proud to have been worthy of their time and affection. 

Patricia Corrigan is a professional journalist, with decades of experience as a reporter and columnist at a metropolitan daily newspaper, and also a book author. She has written for Next Avenue since February 2015. Read more from Patricia at latetothehaight.blogspot.com. Read More