My other mom

When I was a little kid, the woman who was my daycare mom was very active in getting home daycare providers licensed in the state. She pushed to make daycare a profession, to publish standards and activities, to establish good ratios of kids to caregivers, to have this traditional "women's work" be taken seriously, and to do it seriously and well. Which she did. I started going to D's at two; my sister, at two weeks. To this day, my sister has D's laugh, and one of my favorite colors is orange (which was always D's favorite color). I must always have the orange tootsie pop.

D. had a son who was killed, at the age of 18, in a car accident on halloween. Hence, every halloween, she would make big, delicious, hand-decorated sugar cookies--pumpkins, witches, kittycats--and give every one of her daycare kids a big plate to take home. As a kid, I didn't know why, but when I grew up, my mother explained that it was her way of marking the date as special to her, and, I think, maybe finding solace in all her "other kids." She did, also, have other children of her own, grown up by then; a son, and a daughter who was still in college when I was going to D's.

D. potty-trained me; she posted our drawings and paintings up on the walls of her living room; I learned to read at her house. She taught us social justice (she and my parents were active in a post-Vatican II, very progressive parish), she was involved in local politics and the transition to integrated schools. We watched no television at her house, unless our parents were late picking us up, and then we could watch a little bit of PBS while she started cooking her dinner. We played outside in her big back yard, where she had a jungle gym and balls and tricycles, and every fall we were allowed to go on the patch of grass around the walnut tree to pick up walnuts and bring them inside for her to bake with. She had a cat named "Kitty White."

Once my sister and I got older and no longer went to D's after school, we still kept in touch and would visit at holidays and sometimes just for fun; she and our parents remained friends and had other friends in common. I went to the high school D. went to, and she would always contribute to our fundraisers. In high school, my sister used to babysit for D's daughter's daughter. Every Christmas I write to D., and she to me; and sometimes at other times, too. When I go home, I always visit. I, and many of the other kids she took care of, are collectively called "D's kids" by her and all the other adults. D. travelled cross-country to attend my wedding; sent me small gifts when I graduated high school and college; sent a congratulatory note when PK was born; always remembers to ask after Mr. B.

Last time I went home, I went over for a visit, and took Pseudonymous Kid. Now, D. is a very old lady; almost blind, from diabetes, and she has a hard time walking. But she showed PK her magnifying glass, and explained why she used it; introduced him to her cats; let him run around outside in her big yard. When we left, he said, "I don't want to go, I like D."--and any parent of a little kid knows that getting a little kid to like a very elderly relation is not always easy. He still remembers her, when I occasionally ask.

Now, just before that visit, my dad's best friend had died. While PK and I were at D's that afternoon, I asked if she had heard about Bob's death. No, she said, she hadn't; how sad. Would you like to go to the funeral? I asked. Well yes, honey, she said, but I don't drive any more; but please do pass on my condolences to his family. I'll take you, I said. Oh, she said, that's a lot of trouble. No trouble at all, I said; I would be happy to. So, the next day, my dad and I went to pick her up and take her to the funeral. She had to lean on my arm the whole way, and I had to whisper to her who was speaking, because she couldn't see, but Bob's family were glad to see her there (small progressive Catholic community, that). We went out to the cemetery, and she said, oh! This is the cemetery where my son is buried. So, after Bob was in the ground, I offered to help her find the grave. Again, she was reluctant to be trouble, but I insisted, so we went looking for it.

And there it was, with only a very small headstone for a marker. My dad pulled weeds while she explained that, when her son was killed, her then-ex husband refused to help pay for the funeral. At that time, recently divorced, she was very poor, and that was all the headstone she could afford. A few years later, he offered to pay for a nicer one, and, she said, "I refused. I told him that the headstone that is there was the one I bought, that he had not helped when I needed help, that what was done was done and that was the way it was going to stay." I can't remember another time when I saw her angry. She said that the space next to the grave was there for her, and mentioned almost as an aside that this was probably the last time she'd come for a visit, because although she has a woman who comes a few times a week to help her run errands, and her other children do visit, she just doesn't think to ask them to take her out to the cemetery.

So that is D., my other mom. She and my grandmother, really, are the sane mother figures in my life. Whenever I see her or write, she thanks me for remembering her, but really, she helped raise me. Which is what good daycare does: it helps raise kids, and do it well. Daycare helped D. keep her house and put her kids through college; and in the process, she ended up helping a lot of other kids end up being successful, too.

It always pleases me, then, to hear good news about daycare providers. Yesterday, 49,000 home childcare providers in Illinois joined a union. It's part of a larger push, nationwide, to organize home care providers--including child care, but also including women (and men, but mostly women) like the ones who took care of my grandmother as long as she could afford to stay in her home--and who now help take care of D. For more information on how this kind of thing works, see here.

Thanks to A., who asked about women blogging economic issues, for the information. More links over at Trish Wilson's.