A day in the life of a mother
Open the eyes, grateful for a non-interrupted night sleep. If there is time, 10 min of guided meditation. Knock on my 15-yo son's door. ''Good morning, we leave in 25 minutes''. Use the air dryer for 5-10 min to dry his jeans at the seams that didn't fully dry on the rack overnight. Sips of coffee and pieces of an apple between dressing, bed-making, wifi unpausing on the addicted youth's electronics, then drive said youth to bus stop and school. The few questions asked to a 15-yo all seem to have something wrong in them. Drive back home, and if I am blessed with a late start in clinic or a day off, I have time for a 6-km jog. Shower, then finish breakfast outside, journal in the sun while my hair dries. Find small red snake (alive) floating on my pool. Remember a baby's name that contained a pair of parentheses, because I didn't know the gender when I miscarried. Emmanuel(le). Running around in my head as I try to finish notes between seeing patients. Pick up my son, prepare dinner. Go to my youngest son's swim practice. Wonder how my oldest son is doing in college. Reading books like Limitless Mind and thinking about him, imagining what he would think of the topic and experience of consciousness, or quantum entanglement... Because he is studying physics. Another framework to explore the mysteries of life and love.
Thinking about Mother's Day and not thinking about it really. Because a change of paradigm has been initiated. Part of it being due to my chronic unease as a child in an era where Mother's Day felt so scripted. Maybe there was an aversive component coming from a song that we had learned in school and that we were supposed to sing to our mother. It was a beautiful song, but it was also painful.
(Beautiful part).
Maman m’a dit
Que la graine et le fruit
Avaient besoin d’amour
And part of my unease came from the scripted nature of mother's day. It was expected that we would kiss our mom and wish her a happy mother's day first thing in the morning. There would be a gift (often a card or art project done in school).
Later as a mother, I don't believe I was expecting anything specific from my children. The love energy flowed so naturally between us, they would often spontaneously do drawings for me. The kisses, the hugs, the ''maman, je l'aime toi'' (Kristof, 2 years old), the ''je t'aime'' back (Andreas, 2-3 yo) at bedtime, the written ''Mama je t'aime boco, je t'aime tro, oui pis tro'' (Youri, 5 years old) happened any day (between the meltdowns, the tantrums, the challenges) and for that I was immensely blessed. The strain from the divorce disrupted that flow and I found myself yearning for even the scripted... As if, three (birthed, breastfed, carried, hugged, sung to, loved) sons later, I needed the reassurance that I was indeed a mother...
But ''custodial parent'' or not, motherhood is a fact. It is a fact of the heart. It is quantum interconnectedness.
I articulated to myself recently that, like so many other things (including ''custodial parent''), the second Sunday of May is a construct. It is a fabrication of the material world. It is about external recognition, therefore an illusion. It is not the real nor the divine. Sure, some acknowledgement is a nice thing, but for mothers who are in complicated dynamics with their children, it can be a painful reminder. Therefore, dropping the construct and embracing core values (of service, of compassion, of unconditional love) instead turns every day into Mother's Day. No fanfare. No flower bouquet or poem in a card. I don't expect them. So that when they do land in our day, it is a bonus. A pleasant surprise.
Otherwise, it feels like the recognition should mirror an effort, and implies the tyrannical ''Am I doing enough'' question for mothers. I freed myself from this black hole once I decided that as long as I operate from my divine dimension or spiritual source (by accessing the limitless abundance such as my joy, compassion, gratitude, unconditional love) my actions deriving from that state will of course be more than enough.
Back to a day in the life of a mother, in the life of me... Clinic, of course. Long hours and many difficult stories to hear and bear with them, for them. If talking to a patient, sitting with them about the unfinished emotions associated with a miscarriage. ''Did you name your child ?'' The mom who named her child might have an easier time integrating the grief. But if the answer was no, it is never too late to do so. Even in the case of an abortion, I tell the mother she was a mother to that child during that short incarnation.
So this morning, I woke up with a full heart. It was a quiet day. I went jogging. I found joy in preparing food that my teens would enjoy (lasagna for one, pot stickers for the other). Bibi wrote me a card that moved me, gave me nice earrings that my bare earlobes seemed to have been waiting for, a bright kalanchoe and other treats. Then, under the morning sun, I made a collage for a card. I put some good music on. I had a friend over, a ''co-madre'', and we had a nice chat by the lemon tree while eating lunch.
Liberated from the scripted in this beautiful, sunny Sunday of May, my wishes to my mother and other mothers in my life felt more genuine and spontaneous.
And the painful verse from the Mother's day song of my childhood was very faint today. So much has happened in the motherhood sphere. In mine and in other women's I came to know.
15 440 steps (my morning 6k included) later, I realize I had only a few stolen moments to myself, as I watched the sunset while eating frozen cherries to help with sleep. A day in the life of a mother never really ends. There is a pile of dishes. There is the load of laundry to put out again. The logistics of the household for the week to figure out. There is the fatigue that gets in the way of getting my yoga mat so that I can do my 10-min stretches. But somehow I feel more deeply connected to anyone identifying as a mom, whether they gave birth or adopted or not, whether they are recognized by their offspring as such or not. I think that is what made a huge difference for me this year. Letting go of the construct might have happened naturally as I expanded the definition of a parent or mother to encompass intangible aspects such as attempts to connect even when the relationship is tense, sending positive thoughts to a child who is far away, or reparenting and healing oneself as the best legacy to one's children. Because three (birthed, breastfed, carried, hugged, sung to, loved) sons later, no doubt I am and will always be their mother...
Mes enfants, je vous aime pour toujours 💕💕💕
Comments
Post a Comment