Inside each of us dwells a mother.
The instinct to care for another being. Pushing a several-pound mass through one’s birth canal represents one way of achieving motherhood; after all, once the infant emerges with a squall and crowned in meconium, someone assumes responsibility for the child’s care and comfort.
But giving birth is not the only route to becoming a mother, simply the most obvious.
While biology is the least of motherhood, it is the most celebrated. Flowers, chocolates, and Hallmark cards message a sticky sweetness that sugarcoats the reality of motherhood. Mother’s Day is pay day for the hardest job without financial compensation. You can argue the same goes for fatherhood but the reality remains women do the vast majority of child care and housework necessary to raise healthy and happy children. Not to mention the lioness’ share of the emotional work.
Underneath today’s family gatherings and brunches and breakfasts-in-bed runs a river of grief, a grief which embodies the essence of mothering. Honor this grief. For with every tremendous responsibility comes joy–and pain. So too all of you:
Who have lost a mother.
Who does not love your mother.
Whose mother did not love you.
Who have lost a child.
Who wish for a child.
Who cannot bear a child.
Who deliver children into this world.
Who care for others’ children and others’ mothers.
Who have given up children to others to care for.
Who care for animals.
Who demonstrate kindness and compassion to others.
Who care for your friends and neighbors as if they are family.
Who care for this planet.
Who give a damn about making this world kinder, saner, healthier, freer, and fairer.
I honor you.
To the Mother in each of us. Find her. Celebrate her. Remember her. Peace…
Time continues on its slithering way. I wish flipping a calendar page could somehow flip the status of life, but all moving from 2020 to 2021 means is another day, a human-invented artifact intended to give meaning to endings and beginnings.
I miss my mother. Back when we were children, on Mother’s Day my sister and I prepared Mom her breakfast in bed. Being kids we were up early; by the time we barged into her bedroom, beaming over our toast and coffee and dandelions plucked from the lawn, mom was likely entering REM sleep. A part-time nurse, she worked nights in the ICU, so those days we didn’t see her much. She received her RN degree; back in the day, the only training needed to be a nurse. She loved her job—her patients, her colleagues, the work itself. Until the field became saturated with surgical approaches and advanced degrees. She left her profession, edged out by a work environment that had gone touchless long before the arrival of our pandemic.
I took the day off from work to celebrate my presence on this earth for over fifty-something years. But now the rush to enjoy the time off doing nothing leaves me stymied, almost paralyzed, by what to do. Today is the one good weather day for the next few days so I want to be outside as much as possible. To write. To garden. To just sit.
I never wanted to be one of those people who endured Christmas. But this year, the days b
Like many of you, I’ve had a challenging year. A separation, a divorce, two moves, a sick child. A ‘new’ old house which makes me wish Bob Villa made house calls and I’d won the lottery.
IN MEMORY
Mother’s Day.
Linda Wastila 