DMOTHER, by Mary Heaton Vorse

The position of an older woman in her daughter's house is often
difficult. It makes no difference to me that Ada is a mother herself;
she might be even a great-grandmother, and yet in my eyes she would
still be Ada, my little girl. I feel the need of guiding her and
protecting her just as much this minute as when she was a baby in the
nursery; only now the task is much more difficult. That is why I say
that the position of women placed as I am is often hard, harder than if
I lived somewhere else, because although I am with Ada I can no longer
protect her from anything--not even from myself, my illnesses and
weaknesses. It sometimes seems to me, so eagerly do I follow the
lights and shadows of my daughter's life, as if I were living a second
existence together with my own. Only as I grow older I am less fitted
physically to bear things, even though I take them philosophically.

When Ada and the rest of my children were little, I could guard against
the menaces to their happiness; I could keep them out of danger; if
their little friends didn't behave, I sent them home. When it was
needed, I didn't hesitate to administer a good wholesome spanking to my
children. There isn't one of these various things but needs doing now
in Ada's house. I can't, however, very well spank Cyrus, nor can I send
Elizabeth home. All I CAN do is to sit still and hold my tongue, though
I don't know, I'm sure, what the end of it all is to be.

Life brings new lessons at every turn in the road, and one of the
hardest of all is the one we older people have to learn--to sit still
while our children hurt themselves, or, what is worse, to sit still
while other people hurt our children. It is especially hard for me
to bear, when life is made difficult for my Ada, for if ever any one
deserved happiness my daughter does. I try to do justice to every one,
and I hope I am not unfair when I say that the best of men, and Cyrus is
one of them, are sometimes blind and obstinate. Of all my children, Ada
gave me the least trouble, and was always the most loving and tender and
considerate. Indeed, if Ada has a fault, it is being too considerate. I
could, if she only would let me, help her a great deal more around the
house; although Ada is a very good housekeeper, I am constantly seeing
little things that need doing. I do my best to prevent the awful waste
of soap that goes on, and there are a great many little ways Ada could
let m