BUCKING THE SYSTEM: MOTHER HEN CLOSELY GUARDS HER NESTING SECRETS

I can remember the first accident Jerry, my oldest son, ever had.

He was cruising along my parent's kitchen and reached the single step that led into the den. Not being that great a walker, my then-10-month- old fell head first into the den and earned his first scar.

Being an over-anxious mommy, I swooped in and picked him up, showing excessive distress that my sweet child had fallen down. My father watched for awhile, then tut-tutted my concern and told me to "let the boy alone" so he can toughen up.

It's been a constant refrain from my dad ever since, and I've observed it only with much difficulty.

My problem is that it's entirely in my nature to be a mother hen. I'm forever running about tending to the immediate and extended members of my "flock," regardless of their desires (or lack thereof) for my attention.

It's my job to hug and love and comfort or fuss and cuss, depending upon what I feel is necessary at the time.

I love the mother hen role. Even as a child I liked to make people feel safe and protected and loved. I was the one who would try to smooth over arguments and rationally work out disputes. And although I did like having things my way, I was basically an unselfish child who only wanted everyone to be happy.

My mothering instincts increased a hundredfold when I became a real mommy. It took me a while to get used to the whole idea of motherhood, but as soon as the morphine wore off and they let me hold Jerry, I knew something important had changed in my life. Two and one-half years later, Patrick Jr. was born, and the instincts multiplied.

Usually, my mothering is just fine with my boys. As daddy-crazy as they are, it's me they want when they're sleepy or have a hurt that needs kissing or a stomach ache that needs relief.

Jerry, especially, likes the attention. He's what my family calls soft-hearted, which means he's a sensitive child whose feelings can easily be hurt. PJ, on the other hand, is an independent sort who really wants to do things without any help.

Of course, he's still young enough to need me to provide light for dark rooms and give help when stubborn zippers refuse to come together, so I think my position will remain untouched at least as long as it takes him to master those concepts.

I must admit to a secret thrill every time I'm the preferred parent in a crisis situation. It sort of makes up for all the times the kids shriek ecstatic peals of "Daddy!" when my husband walks into the house or squeal with delight at the sight of his Jeep parked in the yard as we return home in the evenings.

Of course, he doesn't know where I keep the Scooby Doo bandages or which cough syrup is the most effective AND tastes the least like medicine, and those are secrets I'm not sharing.

What kind of mother hen would I be if I shared all my secrets?

Tamara Zellars Buck is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.