Mother’s Day feels so strange this year. That initial drop into motherhood feels so far away. It’s been almost four years, I barely remember what it feels like to be swollen and full, to feel tiny feet pushing against my belly from the inside. I’m starting to forget the tingly whoosh of my milk letting down, I can barely remember the feeling of a tiny weight against my chest, milky breath against my cheek.
That part of motherhood feels like another life.
It’s so different than I thought it would be. It challenges me and makes me stretch and dig and grow deeper. Olive is so different than I thought she would be. She’s louder and more vibrant and more real than I ever thought possible.
She came out exactly as I’d imagined. Small, dark-haired, sleepy. She was familiar because she was so much like me. I was comfortable because she was so much like me.
Each day since has been a slow step away – sometimes literally, as she learned to roll and crawl and walk and run – and sometimes in a more figurative sense. She’s not shy about distinguishing herself. She’s bolder than me. Braver. She speaks louder and doesn’t mind demanding what she needs. She’s bright and strong and kind. She’s shy and smart. So smart. It always surprises me how different she is, how much her own person she is. Unabashedly so. From her, I learn to open and ask for what I need. I learn to be strong and soft and inhabit each emotion fully, even when it hurts.
“How did you make me?” she asks. “How did you do it, inside your tummy?”
I flash back to those hundreds of days. Those nine happiest months of my life, those thousands of hours with my hand on my belly feeling the thumping kicks and the slippery roller-coaster feeling of her turning over inside of me. The unbearable mixture of fear and anticipation at the thought of finally meeting her. How did I do it? How did I create this beautiful creature, this girl who is of me but not me?
I don’t know, I reply, But I’m so glad I did.
Her hair is wild like she is. A dozen times a day I absent-mindedly tuck it behind her ears. A dozen times a day she hurriedly untucks it. Shakes her head and musses it up again.
Some days I think I’m a good mother. I speak calmly and I solve problems, we walk hand in hand and I am patient when she climbs rocks and plays with sticks and examines bugs. We laugh and she eats what I make for dinner and at bedtime we lie together, heads touching, and talk about our dreams.
More often than not I see the glaring ways I come up short. I see the times she watches more movies than I’d like – when I’m working or sidelined by my kidney condition. I note the times I raise my voice, the times I say hurry up hurry up let’s go let’s GO. I wonder what she’ll remember more, the times I pulled her close or the times I pushed her off of me, suffocated by her clingy need. The insatiable desire to possess me, inhabit me. Sometimes, being that person for her all day every day, it’s too much. I hope she doesn’t remember that, but I think she will.
Some of my most vivid memories of my mom are the times she lost it. The times she boiled over and yelled, precisely because they were in stark contrast to the firm, gentle way she usually parented. How unfair is that? How cruel that 364 days in a year she took deep breaths and gave herself to us, this horde of six voracious children, yet the days I remember most are the days she had nothing else to give. The days she ran out, the days she said no. The days she closed the door or resisted. They stand out and I remember still the shock, the crushing knowledge that mom was human. I’ve never had more of an understanding for what raising us must have taken until I began doing it myself.
There is nothing like motherhood. No one is needier than a child. They don’t moderate or apologize for their need, there’s no rationing here. They yell and insist, they pull and yank and whine for you, they demand your time and your energy and your help and your attention. Everything you have becomes theirs – each hour in your day and each half-finished sentence and each plate of food and even your favourite funny little misshapen vase, now smashed into smithereens on the floor as you try to hide the hot, angry tears welling up in your eyes.
Their cells continue to inhabit your body long after they’ve left it so you’re never truly alone ever again. Little colonialists. Whatever they need, you give. More and more and more because you feel happy seeing them grow stronger even as your own strength is sapped. I’ve never experienced anything like it. This beautiful, parasitic relationship.
Motherhood is unique when you’re on your own. This last year has been the toughest so far. Three can be an utterly hellish age and when I hit the wall there’s no one there to take over. When I feel like I’m failing, the feeling lingers longer with no one to contradict it. Most of the time, it’s just me and her. We’re a pair, partners. It demands more of me than it would have. It demands more from her than it should. It’s not how I pictured it. Sometimes, though, I think it’s so much easier than it would have been. Sometimes it seems like it really couldn’t have been any other way. It’s hard and sweet and it fills me up and drains me in equal measure.
This morning I thought about the other mothers in my life and I wrote to them, these women who give in the same ways I’ve learned to, some for decades now. I think of the collective gifts I’ve received from them. Gifts of knowledge and learning and understanding – how to turn a tantrum around, how to be firm and strict and loving and respectful. I’ve sat at their feet for years watching them and letting this teaching sink deep into my bones, it saves me daily.
Their confessions – about mistakes, ordering takeout, losing it, getting touched out, being completely caught off guard – they bolster me. Their stories surround me and strengthen me, together they make me feel less like a ship unmoored, trying to navigate this strange sea without a compass.
You’re my best mummy she whispers before she falls asleep.
I ignore the obvious fact that I’m her only mummy and I think she’s right. I’m her best, yes, but her worst, too. And vice versa. We mirror each other like this: I’m the one she clings to most fiercely and pushes away from most savagely. I’m the safe harbour she comes back to after stepping out and trying something new. Falling. Fearing.
I get her worst behaviour, the loudest tantrums, the rudest voice. She pushes me the farthest, knowing I’ll still be here when the storm passes. Yet as the days pass, I see that she is, slowly, learning what I’m trying so hard to teach:
You can be grumpy but you can not be rude.
I’m angry at your behaviour, not at you.
You shouldn’t hurt the people you love.
I’ll be here when you need me.
I love you more than anything.
I’m so glad I’m your mummy.
More than anything else, mothers teach you the push and pull of intimate relationships. They teach you how to give of yourself, even when you don’t feel you have enough. They teach you how to care for those you love. How to look someone in the eye and apologize (and mean it). How to trust.How to stand up straight and carry yourself with pride. Ask for what you need. Speak confidently. Shake hands. Take deep breaths. Pick yourself up again and again and again. How to love.
Love.
Love.
Inexplicably, this year Mother’s Day feels different, like it’s tinged with a sense of nameless lingering loss. Olive wakes me up by sneezing directly into my face. I miss my own mom. Facebook is awash with doting husbands coordinating excursions and flowers and scribbled cards. I linger over pregnancy photos and think about the boxes of baby clothes stacked high in the closet of my old house. I wonder if the first time was also the last time. I think of the day Olive cried because she wanted a sister. I think of the night she told me she wanted it to be just me and her forever. Either way, she’ll get what she wants, and so will I.
Either way, I’m a mother. Her best one.
Here’s to us.
17 Comments
It’s not really Mother’s Day until a beautiful reflection on motherhood has made me cry. Thank you for writing this today.
Thank you, Sara. I hope yours was wonderful.
xo
I never thought Mothers Day would be so rife with emotion. I expected it to be so lovely, all about me and how wonderful I am at being a mother. This is my third Mothers Day, and due to a fight with my husband the night before, it has been tainted, and ruined by the lingering anger. No special treatment. A card, a small gift. Over. Then there was a poo’splosion to clean up (because hubby was going to vomit) and pzza ordered instead of Chinese to make everyone else happy. But. As I tucked her into bed and told her “I Love You”, she whispers back, oh so quietly “I love you Mummy”. (It should end on that sweet, sweet note, but then she proceded to get me up four times during the night.) Happy Mothers Day. *fist bump*
It’s never quite what you think it will be, hey? Thank you for such a stark, honest reply. It’s easy to forget that nothing is perfect.
xoxo.
You and your sibs were so lucky to have an incredible mother and role model. Jenny is smart and funny and sensible and silly – and she passed those traits along to all of you. And you are doing the same for your wonderful daughter too. Happy Mother’s Day!
I agree – she’s incredible! We are so, so lucky.
What a beautiful reflection on your motherhood journey. Sounds like you are very blessed to have each other x
This is so beautiful and raw I got tears in my eyes at the end. The way it’s written reminds me of Jeanette Winterson.
I loved “Written on the Body”, so I love this comparison, too. Thank you!
Excellent piece…kept reading again nd again..very touching.the way u track olives emotions,she is lucky to have a supermom.
Dearest Madeleine, You have written this so beautifully. I remember my mother saying that she would look at us sleeping and say that tomorrow she would not be cranky or angry with us. Up we would get in the morning and within a few minutes she had already raised her voice to at least one of us. You have done an amazing job with Olive. It must be so hard raising a child on your own, especially when you have renal problems. I admire you. You are so intelligent and you write so well. Olive will grow up very quickly. Once they start school the time just goes. Suddenly they are working or at University.
I will pray for you and your health dear Madeleine. xx
“Sometimes, though, I think it’s so much easier than it would have been. Sometimes it seems like it really couldn’t have been any other way. It’s hard and sweet and it fills me up and drains me in equal measure.”
Exactly how I feel.
What a wonderful wonderful mom u are…and doing such a hard and important job of raising a child. And it’s sooo worth it!…
Thank you so much, Inna.
Loved reading this! My kid (2) calls her PB&J sandwiches peanut butter jellyfish and now we all do in the hopes that she will never stop. It’s nice to know others out there are also not correcting their toddlers on ever adorable mistake.
Sorry I meant to leave this reply on your “Her” post… but I am apparently comments-challenged so apologies for the randomness and I of course loved this post too.
This post is beautiful. I love reading your blog, but this took all the thoughts tumbling around in my head for the last 19 months and made sense of it. Being a mother is the best, hardest thing I’ve ever done. Thank you for posting this. And happy belated Mother’s Day.