Allie's Wardrobe:
Foley + Corinna Spring Garden Sheath Dress and Sophie Pump by Marios Schwab for Scorah Pattullo

Brought to you by:  Mom Agenda

My Mama Told Me...
Allie on ancestral admiration, and appropriation

…more like my mama showed me!
Since entering the hallowed halls of mama-dom, inordinate quantities of my mother’s maternal methodology have been assimilated -- often shockingly so -- into my own parenting protocol.

Surely, you know the surprising “traditions” to which I refer -- those “when I’m a mother, I’ll never _____” rituals that until becoming a parent yourself, you’re blissfully unaware the maligned mommy-moves are hereditary. Cases in point: licking a finger in order to remove mystery schmutz from a baby’s face, the sing-songy “airplane into the hangar” spoon maneuver/food enticement method, and the repeated panic calls to the night nurse on duty.

Of course not all the passed-down practices have unsavory undertones. In Mai and Ringo’s nursery (as in my babyhood nursery) lullabies are not simply reserved for pre-nighttime repose, but sung before naps, in the doctor’s office, following a feeding. Nose-to-nose nuzzles are enacted whenever Mommy’s mood strikes. The kid glove archiving of infancy’s artifacts has become virtually curatorial.

Time to prepare for the mother of all days. Not that first delirious 24 hours at home with twin newborns, and not the dinner hour made cacophonous by coupled colic. After plenty of days that -- at the risk of sounding crass -- felt like a mother, the celebratory day for all mothers draweth nigh. Speak openly with your would-be gift givers about what would make this Mother’s Day most memorable for you: a transcendent trip, an insightful investment, a tchotchke worth cherishing.

This year, I’m tapping into yet another of my mother’s annual observances. On Mother’s Day eve, some petite hands will be placed in Plaster of Paris -- simply for sentiment’s sake.

Love, and be loved,