Moments of motherhood: to give birth, to experience love in such a magnified and spectacular manner.
Also: seemingly endless days, weeks, of sleepiness and kid poop and permanent marker on sofas.
You know, it’s all spectacular….
The other day, River looked up at Peter and I, eyes wide, grin full of chiclet teeth. She exploded that very minute. So did our hearts. Each phase of her life is short lived, and inevitably so I am always thinking of the myself at exactly her age, at exactly this time. She is not me—yet, I see me. And in Oak too.
Every year, I lose little bits of my own childhood and instead gain bits of motherhood memory. My brain is inscribing their words and losing my own. Comparison comes now and then, and that is when I recall my own childhood. What a miracle to have these intersecting moments, motherhood and childhood in the same space. This Mother’s Day, I want simplicity. I want a slow day with a floral dress and the sun, hopeufully. I want healthy children and peace and a slightly cleaner apartment—if I’m lucky. I want love. Not just for myself, but for those surrounding me too. I want basics, the simple connections of love and motherhood and sisterhood.
I read something the other day, a comment describing how painful Mother’s Day is for those who have lost their babies, are infertile, or who have lost their own mothers. In the comment the pain was permeable. Being a mother, having healthy children, being able to experience motherhood’s messes and f*ck-ups is privilege often forgotten. And equally, as the holiday draws near, it should be celebrated with those who may not yet be mothers but will join us on this journey someday. Whether already mothers or in waiting or accepting that there will be no children, there are so many layers that penetrate motherhood and childhood, and women, we, are at the the threshold of each of those layers.
So this Mother’s Day, I want to celebrate women. Me, and you, simply, with love.
(Photograph of Marsha Hunt and Karis Jagger)