Yesterday I went to Sydney to spend mother’s day with my mum and grandma. It was a warm day filled with quiet gratitude. Familiar house plants and the comfort of pottery I’ve known since I was old enough to see. We drank tea and looked out the window. I got a bit over-excited in the way I can when I haven’t seen people in ages and talked a fair bit. I felt connected to a lineage of women that transcends age, time and nation. It was a lovely day. I hope yours was too.
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When I was younger, Mother’s Day was when we made cute, hand-drawn cards thanking mum for being nice and making yummy dinners. Sunday morning was for a kid-made breakfast-in-bed with a glass of orange juice and a single weedy flower in a jar of water, all presented on a floral tray. And maybe one of those hand-made dyed pasta necklaces.
Since then, Mother’s Day has been many things:
a commercial construct to reject (fucking Hallmark);
a day of guilt (why are you never here for Mother’s Day? / Why didn’t I get her anything? / I just realised how many peoples’ mothers are absent / cruel / abusive / dead);
a day of ambivalence and uncertainty (so do you want kids?);
a day of exclusion (you’re not a mum, so . . . );
indifference (sorry, I forgot!);
grief (I just realised how many people want to be mums but can’t / are alone / are trying / had a miscarriage/still birth/lost a young child and are still dealing with the pain / don’t want to be mums but are / are having kids, kids and more kids and the environment can’t cope . . . Do you want kids? No. Yes. I dunno. I am almost too old anyway. Sometimes a life chooses you. Some things are out of your control. Why do you care? Go ask that other girl).
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On the long drive to Sydney, amazing women kept popping into my mind. It started with Mothers of children. Women who live with three children and a husband. Women who raise children alone. Women who raise children amid a community of women. Women with twins. Women with mastitis. Women who adopt kids. Women who foster kids. Cousins and friends and travel buddies and faraway families.
Then it was women who guide new life into the world. Women who teach kids. Women who love. Women who live alone. Women who live by the river. Women who lead. Women who build. Women who heal. Women who take risks. Women who light fires. Women who are doctors. Women who care for animals. Women who work for the environment. Women who wrestle birds. Women who speak with courage. Women who write. Women who drive boats. Women who talk kindly to seals.
Each of them drifted across my mind, an image of someone I feel so fortunate to know, to have encountered, to have met a few times. Some of them have kids, some of them don’t. But they all feel like mothers to me. Because what is a mother if not one who loves, nurtures, bears things? A caregiver and caretaker. A healer and creator, living with tenderness and affection?
To celebrate the wonderful women who embody these qualities and let some of them know I was thinking about them, I put a post on Facebook. Then, as I was watering the garden, it struck me that some mums with kids might resent my co-opting this day made for Mothers:
Your mother is the woman who gave birth to you. You can also call someone your mother if she brings you up as if she was this woman. You can call your mother ‘Mother’.
Am I begrudging these Mothers their special day – the one day of the year – put aside to celebrate the undeniable sacrifices made by Mothers of Children? Those who gave birth or adopted or fostered children? Because that was not my intention. But this is a voice that relishes any opportunity for self-reproach.
Do I deserve to be included anyway, to be part of this group of women that are real Mothers? Am I trying to ally myself with a type of woman, of womanhood that I do not embody? Perhaps a more homely and loveable woman, a less selfish type of woman who would prefer not to be allied with the likes of me? Barren? Alone? Mmmmm . . . other? Was that Facebook post some kind of unconscious attempt to insert myself and others like me into a world we simply don’t and can’t inhabit?
Why, hello mean voice. Where’d you come from? Would you like to sit down?
It’s possible that some Mothers look at me and the way I live and feel like they deserve a special day to celebrate their contributions and I do not. I get it. Being a Mother looks tough. But it’s not very nice to exclude others. They might be doing it tough in other ways. It might be good to teach your kids that. It’s nice to make others feel welcome. Cos it’s not just about me. It’s about all the outrageously sensational women I know who don’t have children for so many different reasons. Some imbued with the rich, bold empowerment our generation is so fortunate to enjoy. Some imbued with loss and longing or simply circumstance. Some imbued with a different kind of responsibility to future generations. All of them just so bloody inspiring.
So, to all the wonderful women out there doing it for the next generation your way – Happy Mother’s Day for yesterday. You rock x