Mothering and being mothered

Post-Mother's Day musings

Mother. Mamma. Mum. Mom.

Ma. The first sound uttered by a child. Often the last call made upon death.

We enter here through her womb and we go back to her greater womb when our time is done. What remains of us in bones or ashes returned to her hold.

There is so much nuance in motherhood. It’s not as simple as Hallmark cards or a day in an annual calendar wants us to believe.

I reflect on this every Mother’s Day. Like I reflect on Earth Day each year. For me it’s odd to have a day dedicated to something that is a living breathing daily experience in our lives.

I’m not a mother but I have a mother and taking one day out of an entire year to honour her is becoming stranger as I get older. Some may argue it’s symbolic but the question is what are we honouring because mothering and being mothered is complex and lies across a wide spectrum of experience. And this spectrum is growing constantly. We have traditional birthing mothers, we have adoption, we have surrogacy. We have men and non-binary mothers. We have rising infertility rates. We have women who are childless by choice and we have women who are not. We have mothers who find it difficult to mother and those who thrive on it. And so on…

I walked around my little town on Mother’s Day, interestingly with my mother in tow, she just happened to be here last weekend, but not intentionally. I saw a son give his mother flowers; another son hug his mother in such an awkward fashion his girlfriend grimaced; a few mothers dressed up in elegant outfits for the occasion; a little boy, around 9, in a charcoal suit sitting across from his mum, having what is most likely a treat meal at a fancy restaurant. It was all lovely but I wondered what happened on the other days of the year. Did that son spontaneously drop in for tea with a bunch of flowers? Did the one who grimaced even see his mother much? Did the little boy help his mother with chores?

Meanwhile my mother and I had an argument that day and that somehow felt ok because it was more aligned with the true nature of parent and child. The ebb and flow of what can be our best yet also most tested relationship. My mother and I are extremely close and we’re also different in many ways, so conflict is normal and disagreement regular. But I have no doubt that she would walk to the end of the earth to be there for me, and she has, a number of times in my life. I would do it for her too.

For some a mother can be our everything and for others completely absent. Most probably come somewhere in between.

In this lifetime, I’ve been blessed to be loved by three mamas — a mother and two grandmothers. To feel the safety of being held, to have my tears wiped and my smile recognised. To have known the assurance of an unwavering devotion and an endless stream of care.

With my mother’s mother I was honoured to have her in my world until the age of 40, adult to adult. She was an important influence in my life, a sage mentor, and to this day I talk to her often. I wear her engagement ring and have done so since her death. It’s as if she is still holding my hand in some way, her love and light shining through the sparkling diamond.

I’ve also been ever so grateful to have met other mothers, women who have shown me motherly love when I need it, whether they be friends, practitioners or teachers. I hope I’ve been able to do the same for other women.

And, I’ve felt an empty void in the place of where motherhood may have sat for me. A gnawing curiosity weaved with a wonder of ‘what if’…

At times the void has been filled with a burning ache, other times an ocean of grief, and yes occasionally a dark chocolate-like bitterness or ‘why me’ mentality blended with a corresponding fear of being both mother-less and child-less one day.

Not having birthed a child in this lifetime has become easier after menopause. I guess it’s because I don’t have the monthly surge of hormones alerting me that it’s time to conceive. My feelings around not having mothered have softened. Perhaps the void is filling in more with the energy of a serene glass lake on a summer’s day. I still do, and probably always will, wish I had the opportunity, but I’m more accepting. I’m sure I’ll remain curious, waves will arrive, like the times I hear a child call out ‘mum’ and I contemplate what that would feel like. But overall the energy has shifted.

Mum told me this would happen, some of her (many) wise words of advise. She said it would become easier, but at the time when I was deep within it, I couldn’t feel that. My peri-menopause years were challenging, with each period came the worrisome thought of: would this be the last, would this be the one that marks the end of the possibility of motherhood for me.

I write this because I’m now kind of like the woman my mother was at that point. Not as old as she was, but definitely more knowing. Experience does bring you to different levels of knowing. There is a point in menopause. There is a point in each phase of a woman’s life. Each fit together like the pieces of a puzzle.

It reminds me once more of this idea of youth as revolutionists. As much as we need innovation we also need the grounded-ness and stability that comes with a life long-lived. We need mothers and mentors, wise crones and blossoming maidens. We need each season, each woman, each experience.

Circling back to the idea I started off with in terms of the one day to celebrate motherhood, for me, it’s like taking a season or an age and ignoring all that comes around it. The tides and swells. The aches and ecstasy. The conflicts and love. The hugs and screams. The known and the unknown.

Our Great Mother holds it all, as do we. Whether we’ve birthed or not. Whether we have a mother now or not, every part of that exists in us, is something we can call on when we need to and recognise in another when we’re in doubt.

With love

Sharon