Delighted to welcome the lovely Robin W. Pearson to the blog once again. Celebrating the release of her second novel, ‘Til I Want No More, Robin is sharing about motherhood – her grandmothers, mother, and her own experience as a mum to her beautiful family.

And we have a giveaway! Robin’s publisher, Tyndale House, has provided a copy of ‘Til I Want No More for one fortunate reader. Enjoy this feature post then enter the giveaway.

Over to you, Robin…

Help! I’m Becoming My Mother

When my grandmother lived on this side of heaven, she used to talk to my mother until the wee hours. Sometimes Mama would fall asleep on the phone, and Grandma would sit there silently, waiting for her to wake up so they could resume their conversation. We could convince Grandma to leave behind her mailbox for barely a minute or two and visit with us. But before too long, she’d announce, “I need to check my mail,” and we’d have to cart her back home so she could enjoy us on her own turf. My diminutive grandma certainly had a giant-size will. Only the love of her daughter could bend it. But never break it.

Grandma didn’t live too far from my parents, and Mama would drive over several times a week. She’d sit with Grandma on her front porch or at the kitchen table, talking about so-and-so who’d died or comparing their hardheaded children—meaning my aunts and uncles and my siblings and me. After an hour or so, Mama would retrieve her purse, stand, and say, “Well, Mama . . .” 

Grandma would simply introduce a different subject, as if she hadn’t heard her daughter utter a word. If she wasn’t ready for us to leave, our car wouldn’t move.

Our shopping trips followed in a similar vein. We’d trail Grandma up one aisle and down the next. No matter how often Mama asked her, “Why are you looking at the dog food or motor oil or . . . ?” she took her time, inspecting each and every item, whether she needed it or not. Mind you, she never owned a pet or drove a car. Grandma had her own manner of doing things, and that’s what she was going to do. I think it was her way of drawing out their time together, and Mama relished giving her that attention.

Grandma and Mama shared a unique dynamic, much like my characters in ‘Til I Want No More, Ruby and her daughter, Vivienne. In my second novel, these two women worked together professionally and personally, running Manna, their catering company, and raising Maxine, Vivienne’s oldest child. Just like my own grandma, Ruby was the most comfortable in her own kitchen, in the belly of her family. She had plenty to say and took her own sweet time saying it, choosing her words like my grandmother chose her groceries.

When the man she loved years ago returns to town, one young woman’s complicated past rises again, threatening to expose her well-kept secrets.

If Maxine could put her finger on the moment when her life went into a tailspin, she would point back twenty years to the day her daddy died. She tells herself he’s the only person who ever really knew and loved her, and if he hadn’t left her behind, her future would’ve taken a different path. No absentee mother, no stepfather, no rebellious ripping and running during her teenage years. And no JD, who gave her wandering young heart a home, at least for a time.

But that’s over and done with. All grown-up now, Maxine has pledged her heart and ring finger to Theodore Charles, the man she’ll promise to love, honor, and obey in front of God and everybody. At least that’s what she’s telling anybody who will listen. The only folks buying it are the dog and the readers of her column, however. Her best friend and family aren’t having it―not even Celeste, the double bass–playing thirteen-year-old the community of Mount Laurel, North Carolina, believes is Maxine’s adopted sister. And apparently, neither is the newly returned JD, who seems intent on toppling Maxine’s reconstructed life. As her wedding day marches ever closer, Maxine confronts what it means to be really known and loved by examining what’s buried in her own heart and exposing truth that has never seen the light of day.

A Christian fiction novel with a poignant story of romance, a search for truth, and a journey to redemption. For fans of Chris Fabry, Lauren Denton, and Charles Martin.

Ruby trusted her family to listen. Her granddaughter Maxine hung on every word that dripped from Mama Ruby’s tongue, whether the older woman was sharing a recipe for her cerdo asado or teaching Maxine a lesson from her childhood. Their love language employed more than words and food. They spoke from the heart.

And I speak from mine, like my characters and like Grandma and Mama. They passed down their special brand of communication, the way they gave me my nearsightedness and the mole on my bottom lip. Cut from the same pocket-size material, their love is a mixture of steel wool and velvet. Mama’s heart has a viselike grip, and she doesn’t believe in letting go.

So she doesn’t, and neither do I. No matter how far we’ve traveled to my folks or how long they visit me, she has a way of driving our time together. I’ve sat by my mama’s bed for hours on end, but the time is always too short; it’s never long enough. If she’s not ready to let me go, she finds a way to put my leave-taking on pause. She finds something for me to do, whether it’s packing up extra food for my family, oohing and aahing over her new sweater, or demanding gently, “Just get me the . . . It’ll only take a minute.” 

Sure, I could put down my foot and pick up my keys. Tell her, “We’re leaving. See you next time.” But it’s Mama’s way of holding me close, of telling me she loves our time together. After all, she came by this “condition” honest.

I’ve tethered myself just as tightly to my own little people. We hug a dozen times before they travel because it’s just as hard to let them go. I call Mama when I arrive; my peeps text me. Mama strolled with Grandma through the grocery store; we linger around the dinner table. The two of them talked through the night; I tend to pull all-nighters writing stories about them. Their love for me inspired my books; my love for my peeps gives life and breath to my characters. 

Like mother, like daughter, like me. Somebody had better help my little people, but I suspect it’s too late.

Oh, Robin! What a lovely feature – thank you for sharing so joyously and honestly about your Grandma and mother and you!

Robin W. Pearson’s writing sprouts from her Southern roots and her love of her husband and seven children. Both lend authenticity to her novels. After graduating from Wake Forest University, she has corrected grammar up and down the East Coast in her career as an editor and writer that started with Houghton Mifflin Company twenty-five years ago. Since then she has freelanced with magazines, parenting journals, textbooks, and homeschooling resources. Follow her on her blog, Mommy, Concentrated, where she shares her adventures in faith, family, and freelancing.

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Buy at Amazon: ‘Til I Want No More or Koorong