母亲的蒲公英MyMotherandtheDandilion.doc

母亲的蒲公英My Mother and the Dandilion I grew up in a small town where the elementary school was a ten-minute walk from my house and in an age, not so long ago, when children could go home for lunch and found their mother waiting. At that time, I did not consider this a luxury, although today it certainly would be. I took it for granted that mothers were the sandwich-makers, the finger-painting appreciators and homework monitors. I never questioned that this ambitious, intelligent woman, who had had a career before I was born and would eventually return to a career, would spend almost every lunch hour with me throughout my elementary school years just with me. I only knew that when the noon bell rang, I would race breathlessly home. My mother would be standing at the top of the stairs, smiling down at me with a look that suggested I was the only important thing on her mind. For this, I am forever grateful. One lunchtime when I was in the third grade will stay with me always. I had been picked to be the princess in the school play, and for weeks my mother had painstakingly rehearsed my lines with me. But no matter how easily I delivered them at home, as soon as I stepped onstage, every word disappeared from my head. Finally, my teacher took me aside. She explained that she had written a narrators part to the play, and asked me to switch the roles. Her words, kindly delivered, still stung, especially when I saw my part go to another girl. I didnt tell my mother what had happened when I went home for lunch that day. But she sensed my unease, and instead of suggesting we practice my lines, she asked if I wanted to walk in the yard. It was a lovely spring day and the rose vine on the trellis was turning green. Under the huge elm trees, we could see yellow dandelions popping through the grass in bunches, as if a painter had touched our landscape with dabs of gold. I watched my mother bend down by one of the clumps. “I think Im going to dig up all these weeds,” she said, yanking a blossom up by its roots. “From now on, well have only roses in this garden.” “But I like dandelions,” I protested. “All flowers are beautiful - even dandelions.” My mother looked at me seriously. “Yes, every flower gives pleasure in its own way, doesnt it” she asked me thoughtfully. I nodded, pleased that I had won her over. “And that is true of people, too,” she added. “Not everyone can be a princess, but there is no shame in that.” Relieved that she had guessed my pain, I started to cry as I told her what had happened. She listened and smiled reassuringly. “But you will be a beautiful narrator,” she said, reminding me of how much I loved to read stories aloud to her. “The narrators part is every bit as important as the part of a princess.” Over the next few weeks, with her constant encouragement, I learned to take pride in the new role. Lunchtimes were spent reading over my lines and talking about what I would wear. Backstage the night of the performance, I felt nervous. A few minutes before the play, my teacher came over to me. “Your mother asked me to give this to you,” she said, handing me a dandelion. Its edges were already beginning to curl and it flopped lazily from its stem. But just looking at it, knowing that my mother was out there and thinking of our lunchtime talk, made me proud. After the play, I took the flower back home. My mother pressed it between two sheets of paper toweling in a dictionary, laughing as she did it that we were perhaps the only people who would keep such a sorry-looking weed. I often look back on our lunchtimes together, bathed in the soft midday light. They were the commas in my childhood, the pauses that told me life is not savored in premeasured increments, but in the sum of daily rituals and small pleasures we share with loved ones. Over peanut-butter sandwiches and chocolate-chip cookies, I learned that love, first and foremost, means being there for the little things. A few months ago, my mother came to visit me. I took a day off from work and treated her to lunch. The restaurant was bustled with noontime activity as business people made deals and glanced at their watches. In the middle of all this sat my mother, now retired, and I. From her face I could see that she relished the pace of the work world. “Mom. You must have been terribly bored staying at home when I was a child,” I said. “Bored Housework is boring. But you were never boring.” I didnt believe her, so I pressed. “Surely children are not as stimulating as a career.” “A career is stimulating,” she said. “Im glad I had one. But a career is like an open balloon. It remains inflated only as long as you keep pumping. A child is a seed. You water it. You care for it the best you can. And then it grows all by itself into a beautiful flower.” Just then, looking at her, I could picture us sitting at her kitchen table once again, and I understood why I kept that flaky brown dandelion in our old family dictionary pressed between two crumpled bits of paper toweling. 母亲的蒲公英我在一个小镇长大,从我家到小学只要走10分钟;就在那个不久前的年代,孩子们可以回家吃午饭,并发现他们的母亲在等着他们那时候我没有意识到这是一种奢侈的享受,虽说要放在今天那肯定是的我认为,母亲理所当然地就该做三明治,理所当然就应该欣赏我的手指画,理所当然就应该监督我做作业这个好强聪颖的女人在我出生以前本来有一份工作的,后来终于又回去工作了,这样一个女人在我上小学的那些岁月里几乎每天吃午饭时都会只和我在一起对此我视为当然我只知道中午放学的铃声一响,我就朝家里飞奔而去,直跑得上气不接下气我母亲总会站在台阶的最上面,低头冲我微笑,那神情分明告诉我,我是她心目中最重要的,冲这一点我要感激一生我永远不会忘记我上三年级时的一次午饭时间学校要演戏,我被选中扮演公主几个星期了,我母亲和我一直在不辞辛苦地排练我的台词可是不管我在家里把台词背得多么滚瓜烂熟,一上舞台,每个词儿就从脑子里消失得无影无踪最后,老师把我拉到一旁她解释说,她给剧本写了一个旁白的角色,要我换角色她的话说得虽然很委婉,但还是刺痛了我,尤其是当我看到我的角色换给了另一个女孩儿时那天中午回家吃午饭,我没有把事情的经过告诉我母亲但是她感觉出了我的不安,所以她没有建议我们练习台词,而是问我想不想到院子里走一走那是一个可爱的春日,格子棚架上的玫瑰藤条在变绿那巨大的榆树下,我们看见黄色的蒲公英一簇一簇地从草丛中冒了出来,仿佛一位画家在我们院中涂上了一抹抹金色我看见母亲在一簇蒲公英旁弯下腰“我想我要把所有这些杂草都挖掉,”她说着猛地一拉,把一朵花连根拔起“从现在起,我们在这座花园里只要玫瑰花儿”“但是我喜欢蒲公英呀,”我不同意了 “所有的花都漂亮啊连蒲公英也是”我母亲严肃地看着我“是的,每一种花都有它赏心悦目的地方,不是吗?”她若有所思地说我点点头,很高兴我把她说服了“人也是这样,”她接着说“并不是每个人都能当公主,但这也没什么可丢人的”她猜出了我的痛苦,我感到安慰我于是哭了起来,并向她诉说发生的事情她一边听一边对我安慰地笑“但是你会做一个出色的旁白呀,”她说,并提醒我我多么喜欢给她朗诵故事“旁白的角色和公主的角色一样重要”在接下来的几个星期,在她的不断鼓励下,我渐渐地对这一角色感到自豪起来每到吃午饭的时候,我们就朗诵我的台词,讨论我穿什么衣服演出的那天晚上,我在后台感到紧张就在开演前几分钟,我老师向我走