When my brother and I were little kids, our parents took us
on the road every summer. They packed up the green Rambler station
wagon, with our suitcases on the top carrier, and an air mattress with sheets
and pillows in the cargo area, along with a Styrofoam ice chest. I had a stack
of library books, and my little brother played games or drove me crazy. It took
two and a half days of round-the-clock driving to get from Phoenix,
Arizona, to our grandparents’ homes in
northern Minnesota.
We didn’t stay in motels or eat at restaurants along the
way. Dad stopped for gas station restrooms (usually—unless we had to go potty
between the car doors on the side of the road), and just long enough for Mom to
make sandwiches and cut up fruit for us at a roadside picnic table.
Since we weren’t stopping at motels, we couldn’t take baths
for three days. That meant washcloths and soap, and water from a bucket or the
gas station restroom sink. So about 20 miles from our destination, Mom brought
out the paper towels and the Mom Spit. My brother and I squirmed and shrank
away, but in a Rambler, there wasn’t much space to hide.
“Ewww, Mom. Noooooooooo, not the spit!”
“It’s just the same as a mama cat, cleaning her kittens. Now
hold still. That apple butter will
come off your cheeks before we get there.” To get the process started, we'd stick our own tongues waaaay out and try to lick off our own chops. And then she'd spit on the paper towel and proceed to scrub off the schmutz.
It’s not really like a mama cat, you know. I watch my two
cats grooming each other. Mali is fast asleep on a chair, when Smetana,
the younger one, jumps up and walks on Mali, who awakes. Smetana licks Mali’s forehead
for maybe 30 seconds before she puts her head down for reciprocal grooming.
Then she gets what she came for: at least 10 minutes of washing on her face,
neck, chin, ears, and eyes, before they both fall asleep in bliss, a blur of
fur.
Mom Spit is a universal experience, a timeless experience. Certainly my
friends were on the receiving end, and have imposed it on their own young. And when I looked for an image to accompany
this article, and typed in “mom spit,” wouldn’t you know, there’s actually a
commercial product by that name! (Not the image I’m posting here.)
Moms would never use their own saliva to clean someone else's child. Mom Spit is intimate. It's a family matter. It shows a loving attention to detail.
Moms would never use their own saliva to clean someone else's child. Mom Spit is intimate. It's a family matter. It shows a loving attention to detail.
 |
| Before Purel, before baby wipes, before the Tide pen, there was: Mom Spit. |
When Jesus offers to wash us, it’s not something to squirm
away from. For him, it meant the shedding of his blood, but for us, it’s a
declaration that we’re as clean as he is, and that he has officially forgotten
that we were ever dirty. “And I will forgive
their wickedness, and I will never again
remember their sins.” Hebrews
8:11
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you. And thanks for
spit-washing me so I’d look clean and angelic for Grandma.
Postscript: When I posted this in Facebook, the women commented on the experience of giving and receiving Mom Spit. The men commented on the picture of the car.
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Christy K Robinson is author of these sites:
- Discovering Love (inspiration)
- Rooting for Ancestors (history and genealogy)
- William and Mary Barrett Dyer (17th century culture and history of England and New England)
and of these books:
· We
Shall Be Changed (2010)
· Mary Dyer Illuminated (2013)
· Mary Dyer: For Such a Time as This (2014)
· The Dyers of London, Boston, & Newport (2014)
· Effigy Hunter (2015)
· Anne Marbury Hutchinson: American Founding Mother (2018)
· Mary Dyer Illuminated (2013)
· Mary Dyer: For Such a Time as This (2014)
· The Dyers of London, Boston, & Newport (2014)
· Effigy Hunter (2015)
· Anne Marbury Hutchinson: American Founding Mother (2018)
