How I Grew Five Mothers

WHEN I TELL MY CHILDREN a story about my mother, like how she used to share her cocktails with our golden retriever, or the time she tried to eat an entire pumpkin pie off the floor after I dropped it, or when I woke up in the middle of the night and caught her making a tooth fairy delivery in the nude, the kids always ask the same thing: Which mother are you talking about, Pop?

- Marc Peyser

It’s a fair question. After all, I’ve had five mothers.

Only one of them is my biological mother, of course.(She’s the tooth fairy mum, and just for the record, she says she wasn’t wearing any clothes because she remembered her job only after going to bed, which she did naked, or so I learnt on that I-wish-I-could-unsee-it night.) I also have a mother-in-law, aka the pumpkin-pie eater. And thanks to my dad’s can-do matrimonial motto—“If at first you don’t succeed, tie, tie the knot again”— I’ve also been the recipient of three stepmothers. That’s four wives for dear old Dad. Somehow, when they leave him, they stay attached to me. You should see all the I HEART MuM tattoos I have on my biceps.

I’m not complaining, mind you. With multiple mums, you get multiple birthday cards and holiday presents, not to mention a deep bench of low-cost babysitters. On the other hand, you also get a bumper crop of opinions on how to raise your kids, what you should and shouldn’t eat, and where you should spend your vacation. (The answer to the last one: at her house—not at one of the other mothers’.)

Having this many mums has made me something of an expert on the species, and I mean