By Anne W. Semmes
Sentinel Columnist
When Mother’s Day rolls around again, inevitably that squirrel story I came across years ago comes to mind that so speaks to the heart of mothering.
The story goes that a father, intent on securing the outside of his house from the invasion of critters, particularly that hole under the eaves where squirrels might be tempted to make their nest, goes out early one spring evening with his tools and climbs up his ladder to nail a board over that hole he then covers with a strip of metal lath.
The next morning after he leaves for work, his young daughter, ready to leave for school notices outside her window a squirrel lying along the edge of the roof making whimpering noises. She brings her mother to the window and reports, “See the squirrel on the roof? I think it’s crying.”
Indeed, the mother sees the crying squirrel lying along the edge of the roof. She goes outside to inspect more closely, and sees the work her husband has done. She also sees a line of chew marks along the strip of metal.
The daughter wonders out loud, “Mommy, might there be babies in there?”
“Possibly,” says the mother. She will take her daughter to school then call her husband. By the time he is reached, the squirrel has chewed through the metal strip.
“The squirrel will never be able to get through that wood,” the father tells his wife. “You’ll have to get the ladder and take the board down.”
“A family in there already?” he adds. “That’s what I was trying to avoid!”
The mother positions the ladder. She carefully climbs up the ladder to reach the metal strip. She struggles to pry off the metal lath and finds the board solidly nailed. She also sees the squirrel has chewed across the entire length of board. In, fact, almost a 45-degree angle is gnawed off. And yet she hears no sounds from a possible roof nest, and she sees no sign of the squirrel. Is she risking her life, she wonders, for this whimpering squirrel?
But her doubts are fading as she eyes that chewed edge. She precariously works to loosen the board while keeping her balance.
At last the board yields, just as her daughter arrives home for lunch. She shares what she has done, relating she’s seen no sign of squirrels, when suddenly, the squirrel is back. She’s jumping crazily from the roof to a tree close by, then jumping back to the roof. She flies back and forth from roof to tree, from tree to roof. And what should appear along the gutter but three baby squirrels. The mother squirrel then jumps to her babies scampering along the length of the gutter.
As the mother and daughter watch, one of the baby squirrels takes hold of the mother, curling itself around her neck like a furry scarf. The squirrel then jumps to the tree, runs down the trunk, crosses the yard, then runs up the trunk of a tall oak, where the mother stuffs the baby into an invisible hole. Returning, the next baby curls itself around her neck for the great escape, with the last rescue coming minutes after.
That evening the father returns to his ladder, this time to cover that hole again with a new board. The old gnawed board has taken a place of honor on the mother’s desk as a symbol of how a mother’s love never gives up. That mother squirrel might never have been able to gnaw her way through that board, but her determination and love had inspired this mother to her rescue.
The mothering instinct, that urge to save and protect, does not disappear when our children leave the nest. But our efforts and ability to aid and influence our children quickly diminish as they age. We learn soon enough that their way may not be our way.
Our friends begin to take their places in our lives. And one of our conversations becomes, with our closest friends, the shared frustrations of not being able to “rescue” our children in their distresses. We learn acceptance, we learn to just keep loving them, and to carry on.
We could wish to be closer to our children, physically speaking. But they literally fly far away, to all parts of the globe, to Abu Dhabi on the other side of the world and now to California, to make their way. We are relegated to the occasional email or text or, rarer still, a phone call. For my California son’s birthday, I gave him a roughly hewn wooden block for his desk with large block letters printed, “Call Mom Now.”
