I have birthed two daughters but if someone asked me how many daughters I love, I’d say six. The other four never lived inside my body but they are somehow mine, nonetheless. They’re not mine in the way they belong to their actual mothers — the ones who carried them and fed them, the ones who made household rules for them to follow and passed on their beautiful skin or quick wit. They’re mine because, with their mom’s permission, I’ve been allowed to be a part of bringing them through this world safely. I’ve carried them on my hips and kissed their skinned knees. I know their food likes and dislikes. I know what makes them get, as my mother would say, “sassy.” I know what makes them cry. All the years of knowing them has made me love them a little like a mama and a little like a friend. It’s made me a “second mom” who is ready to stand between them and any cruelty the world has to offer. I revere this role. It is an awesome privilege to be trusted by a precious girl who isn’t your own. I know because I have a second mom as well, and I cannot imagine my life had she not been in it. I know how to do it well precisely because she showed me. Every time I love a kid who isn’t mine, my Azaniah, my Zofia, my Peyton, my Emily, I naturally start to channel her and I am grateful.
My second mom is named Betty. Did you ever know a Betty who wasn’t friendly and humble and kind but tough as nails? Me neither. My Betty is no exception. She met my mother when my oldest sister was in preschool with her daughter nearly fifty years ago. The mothers and daughters became fast friends and a genuine bond took root. I adore picturing these two young twenty-something women, their first babies going down the slide together on a bright sunny day, getting to know each other. “Your husband works at the university? Mine too!” “I love your lipstick. Thanks, I got it at Kmart. It’s Max Factor Rosy Mauve.” “I cannot get my kid to eat vegetables either. Sometimes I hide them in the soup and she doesn’t notice!” They could not have known then that they’d spend the next fifty years living on the same street and doing life together like they were family. They’d eventually teach at the same elementary school and hold each other up when things were tough. They’d cry together when their kids made horrible choices and exult when they made good ones. They’d tell each other, flat out, when they were wrong. They’d brave vacations and holidays, celebrations and devastations, illnesses and victories together. The assumption was always, “Yes, we’ll be together.” They fought and made up and fought others together who fought them. They befriended each other’s husbands, doing that awkward dance that women do with their best friend’s guy. It is a universal truth that women know too much about the husband of their best friend. They’re privy to his secret strengths and his secret faults so they cannot help but slightly loathe him and also entirely adore him. Mostly, they love him for loving their friend, and if he ever stopped, well, that would it for him. Finally, they helped raise each other’s daughters. That’s where I came in.
Life with a second mom is like life inside a hardboiled egg — an appropriate metaphor for someone who didn’t give birth to you but, nonetheless, gave birth to some part of who you grew to be. You are the yolk. You are tiny and full of potential. Your real mom is the white, a thick firm barrier against you and the outside world. Your real mom is willing to be the steady one, providing everything you need without glamour or credit. All she knows is that to get to you, the world has to go through her first. She’s good with that but she cannot do it alone. The second mom is the shell. Her presence is thinner, but hard and concrete. She’s sitting there quietly and gently holding your mom together which, unbeknownst to you, keeps you as safe as safe can be. Sometimes you forget she is there, but without her, life would be an entirely different omelet.
The second mom is the backstop when the real mom has had it with your shenanigans or simply cannot do it all at once. When my mom started working full time, my Betty took me to school. She dropped me off at high school so many times that when a boy I liked asked me whether her Ford Thunderbird sports car was mine, I felt comfortable saying “yes” in order to impress him. It didn’t entirely feel like a lie. During those drives, I chatted with her about my worries and she was such a good ear. The second mom is just the right balance of authority and friendship for a girl in her teens. You can tell her anything, really, but God help you if you get sassy or talk badly about your mom. She’ll put you in your place like an overdue library book. She’s not having it because you know that she knows exactly what your mom expects of you. She’s not afraid to love you and remind you what the rules are in equal measure. You don’t know how much you need that particular brand of love at that point but you’ll know later.
The second mom also shows you that your worst, most embarrassing parts are loveable. Betty loved me when I got caught stealing candy from her kitchen cabinets and when she caught me red-handed driving to the grocery store alone with only a driver’s permit. She ratted me out, sure as the laces on her practical loafers, but she hugged me when I cried about being grounded because of it. When we were very young and one of my sisters wet the bed in the middle of the night during a sleepover at her house, she acted like it was no big thing. “Oh ok…let’s get washed,” she said breezily as she mopped up the urine of a kid who was not her own in her nightgown without gloves on. Thinking back on that moment as an adult I thought, “Oh! That refusal to shame when shameful things happen? That’s what love looks like. Got it.”
The second mom also gives you extra sisters. I have three of my own but Betty gave me three more. Her girls and my sisters and I shared most of our holidays. We took pictures together on the first day of school and rolled our eyes jointly at our mothers’ pushiness. We hated and loved and admired and shunned our parents together, knowing that one day we’d wise up and thank them for being amazing. We observed their family closely because we got to be part of it. Through them, we learned what other families were like. We devoured their mother’s tacos because they tasted like heaven and they devoured our mom’s cinnamon rolls because they could heal a broken heart. We were joined at the hip and now, years later, we’re linked inextricably by unconditional love and unrelenting memory. These are the gifts Betty gave me that I’ll never ever be able to repay.
I try to repay them anyway. I’ve washed little undies stained with urine and refused to acknowledge the gag reflex I am suppressing. I’ve made tacos for my girls of the heart and also made them eat their vegetables. I’ve disciplined sternly because I know they know they’re loved in my home. I’ve defended their mothers and reminded them how very lucky they are to have a strict mama who won’t let them be foolish just because they want to. I’ve held their moms together as they’ve held me. As I do these things, I think of Betty’s legacy in my life. It’s wonderful.
Jana says
Thank you Amy….your words matter so much!
Jana
Rebecca says
Made me cry. Beautiful
Charles Barnes says
Hard to say much through the tears … Amy speaks profoundly. Her dad.
Kellybeth Barnes says
Love love love ❤️
Elizabeth Reid says
Made me cry Amy! We were so lucky to be raised by two wonderful women and in two wonderful families❤️
Linda McKeever says
So sweet!
Stacey Wittig says
Amazing words woven into such perfect emotion. A beautiful tribute.
Kathie Knapp says
As I read this I find myself fighting back tears, thinking about Betty and thinking about my own second mom. Amy this is the most beautiful, loving tribute to an amazing woman. Grateful God gave you Betty as your second mom. Keeping all of you in our prayers.
Charles Barnes says
We fight back tears, often unsuccessfully. But this is a tribute full of love for a generous soul. We are so proud of Amy and all those people that Betty loved….