April 23, 2022

When we moved to Rochester my daughter who was in pre-school at the time took art classes at a small art studio with a wonderful artist, Shannon Hookway. Shannon had her own three small daughters and yet had all the energy in the world to teach other people’s children art. I thank goodness she was there for my daughter who was born with the “crafty” gene which had clearly skipped a generation in her own mother.

The class was small and so sweet. They worked in many mediums, including painting, sculpture and even fabrics. At one point the class dwindled in size to just one student, my daughter. I begged Shannon not to cancel the class and she agreed to teach my daughter one-on-one. At that point I realized Shannon had become one of my daughter’s “other mother.”

“Other mothers” are the women we turn to when we can’t fulfill all our children’s needs. They bring some skill-set that we somehow lack or they fill a great need that we might have. They may have more time, better cooking skills, or even being a better hugger. They might be someone we hire or just a really great friend. All in all I know I’m a better mother because of the other mothers my children have had in their life.

My daughter’s other mothers have included our fabulous former neighbor who taught our daughter how to make spaghetti from scratch and provided her two daughters to be my daughter’s surrogate sisters. My daughter loved hanging out with her other mother (and sisters) and when they moved there was a void-for both of us.

My son has had other mother’s as well. Like the pre-school car pool moms who had to put up with his terrible car sickness during that endless 40 minute car ride. They all kept yak-attack kits in their cars, which included buckets, towels and a change of clothes.

One of the car pool moms was also his first pre-school teacher, Miss Dale. She taught a mommy and me pre-pre-school class. I went to it and marveled at how delighted Miss Dale was with all the kids in the class, including my own. She could sing cute songs about baby sharks and even knew how to make things out of elbow macaroni. When she agreed to be in my carpool for pre-school I knew she’d have great snacks, music, and patience with the three car seats and the youngins who were in them. And I knew my son might even learn his alphabet on that long car ride.

Our first nanny, Esther was the other mother to not only our family but a family who lived up the block. Their kids had grown older and didn’t need Esther during the day while at school, so she’d see them off on the bus and walk down the block to be with my son.

She was from Liberia and taught my son from infancy to enjoy spicy food from her country. She also completely spoiled my son who learned from Esther that every meal should also be hot–not spicy hot, but warm. As a result, PBJ became unacceptable from that point on in his future lunch boxes. She spoiled him constantly, making me feel like his mean actual mother. But I figured that was fine given that he loved her back and I knew he was not only safe but being smothered with love when I wasn’t there.

My mother also had other mothers who helped to raise us and who gave my mother respite and yes, even a little freedom. When I was a little girl we had another mother who lived with us. Her name was Stella. Before she moved in with us she was my father’s other mother. She lived with my Dad’s family when he was in high school along with her only son. When my grandfather died and my grandmother moved to Florida my mother, who had four children and worked full time asked Stella to live with us. My mother was going back to school at the time, commuting to Manhattan three nights a week. Stella was the other mother who made sure we were fed and safe while my mother pursued her dream of becoming a psycho-analyst.

I personally loved having Stella as my other mother. She let me hang out in her room and watch television. She probably gave me more sweets than I should have had, soI suppose you could call her my“enabling other mother.” But she loved me and her warmth was felt far more than the sugar she slipped into my lunch box. And on top of that, she made my mother’s other life as a professional therapist possible.

And then there was my mother’s best friend Loretta who didn’t have a daughter of her own. I could talk to her about anything. Of course I could talk to my own mother about almost anything too. But there was something safe, special and confidential in sharing it with my other mother. And I loved not only how much Mrs. Gerstenfeld gave to me as my other mother, but also what I now know she gave to my mom, which was her unconditional love and friendship.

Like the night my mom ran away from home. Yup. Not me. My mother. I guess we’d done something pretty terrible on that day. Or perhaps there was just too many of us. But, Mom lost it and said I’m going for a ride (remember she had Stella there). I remember picking up the phone and calling Mrs. Gerstenfeld and she said, “She’s right here.” And when I asked her what we should do, my other mother told me to be kind to my actual mother. She was so wise.

My own best friend Alisa lived right next door with her own mother, who I could call my “sleepover other mother.” I loved sleeping over there. Fewer kids. Better food (Italian semolina pasta at night). Probably better pillows. But I also loved how Mrs. Seminara would sing me to sleep at night when I missed my own mother.

Other mothers are there for you when you are missing your own mother. My husband’s mother passed away 29 years ago. He insist she didn’t have any other mothers growing up. But I think his mother would not agree. She’d be grateful for her group of friends who made sure her family had meals while she was being treated for cancer. Or Louise Blue who kept her house in order when she was too sick to do so.

And I know that since his mom has been gone he has connected with my Mom in a way that is special beyond the typical mother-in-law son-in-law relationship. When my mother-in-law was very ill and we all knew it was a matter of time, my mother told her she would be there for her son and for the grandchildren that hadn’t even been born. So not only is she another mother, she’s another grandmother too. But she was just a place holder, because eventually my father-in-law remarried a wonderful woman who has been a wonderful Sherman grandmother, and my children’s actual “other” grandmother.

As mother’s day approaches I can’t help but think I should send a mother’s day card to all my other mothers and my kid’s other mothers too. Some are still with us, some have passed away. But attention should be paid as they helped to form me as a person and showed me aspects of motherhood that I needed help mastering on my own, like patience, unconditional love and joy.

One who I’d love to reach out to, Mrs. Gerstenfeld was diagnosed with MS very young, and passed away many years ago. But I got through some seminal moments with her in high school. I even got to borrow one of her gowns for my senior prom. It was a gorgeous lime green one shoulder Grecian number that made me feel glamorous, grown-up and yes, even skinny. Now that’s a gift only a mother can give you.

First Published in the Democrat and Chronicle and USA Today Network