Mother Love: This Is for You

This is for you.

You are the only one reading,

So, basically, we’re alone, and you can fall apart here if you need to.

This is for you.

 

You thought for sure you would be a mother.

And you had plenty of time, right? ┬áMaybe you put it off by a few years, maybe five or ten, until the wrinkles started showing up, and you thought…oh, no.

Or maybe you played by the book. Married the right guy in the right place at the right time, with the right house…still, the empty house. Again. Your period started again. You’re so sick and tired of watching your sister complain about her three kids and her full house.

Eight years, and you had given up–come to terms with it. Moved on. Then, one summer she’s there, and in the fall, you start bleeding and she leaves you, way too soon. She and her tiny hands go up in ashes, and your marriage ends. And your friends cry with you, and then they have rainbow babies and you start to see grey hairs over your ears and you start thinking about motherhood as a metaphor. Or kelpies. Or finding a beautiful widower who could use a hand with his brood.

This is for you.

 

You don’t want to be a mother.

And it doesn’t matter whether or not you have a reason, because it’s totally okay for you to be a woman who doesn’t want to procreate. In fact, you don’t have to be motherly or enjoy being around kids to be a woman.

But you know that, because you know yourself–it’s everyone else making this day unbearable, trying to rope you into the situation.

You may think of Mother’s Day as a chance to reflect on the woman who gave you life. Perhaps thank her, or take her out for a cocktail, or pay off her dental bill, or maybe forgive her for the things she did–or didn’t–do to you.

Maybe you just thank the feminine of Life, and its unending, flowering abundance. Yeah.

This is for you.

 

You didn’t know this was being a mother.

Every moment of every day, a long bath alone and 45 minutes of silence is your core desire. You miss being able to hear your own thoughts–talk to an adult about things you used to think about before you filled your head with play-date appointments and school permission slips and trips to the store for groceries.

But then you get three minutes of a quiet snuggle and they hand you construction paper cards that their dad helped them make, and you remember the time they jumped on the bed and sang you happy birthday, and the feeling of exhaustion and elation when the very first was in your arms.

And you thought, I made this, and felt a profound sense of pride–of overcoming death–of wonder at life.

This is for you.

 

With Love, Reverence, and Wishes of Peace,

This is for Us.

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