A Day Later

Darn those "special" holidays.

Yes, that’s me, 80s perm and all, with my two, then wee ones, Brian and Amy.

My children are fully grown adults now, and if I rarely mention them, it’s because I have a “no writing about living family” rule. We all have our perspectives on relationships and on life, and I just don’t think it’s right for me to send my own perspective out into the writing ether when other people who are dear to me are involved. The same goes for friendships, although I have made exceptions with permission.

All day yesterday, I was writing in my head about Mother’s Day. My internet doesn’t realize yet that Mercury has gone direct, and hence I’m slogging along trying to write to you as it glitches in and out.

There were too many distractions. Too many wild emotions. I’m glad I waited until they settled.

I have never been a fan of “special” days. Really, since I was a child. IDK, maybe it’s a result of deep-seated introversion and not wanting attention. But also, the frenetic activity and the expectations around these days never set well with me. And I won’t even get into the ridiculous commercialization.

Mother’s Day is the big mother of them all.

Oh my goodness. The ripe possibilities for triggering are fully engaged. It started for me a whole week ahead of time. Lots of disturbing dreams and waking feeling sad and detached.

People saying and doing things that they have no idea are triggering.

When my spidey senses feel the triggering, I go into protection mode and start to isolate.

I had an aha moment yesterday when I realized when my aversion to Mother’s Day began. In my mid-twenties (I had married at age twenty), it became apparent that we would not be able to conceive.

I desperately wanted to be a mother.

I remember locking myself in the bathroom and crying once on a holiday (of course, a special holiday) because my pregnant sister was there.

I hated Mother’s Day.

After years of infertility treatment, I said, “Enough is enough,” and we decided to adopt.

We waited two and a half long years for Brian and an even longer four years for Amy. They were both infants when they came home to us.

And so our little family was complete. Two little blondies who looked so much alike that it was impossible not to believe that they were fated to be brother and sister.

I would always say that my children “were” adopted rather than they “are” adopted. For me, it was a process, not a state of being.

I am always grateful that I’ve had the experience of having a mother and being a mother. It changes your perspective in so many ways.

I wrote about my own mother a few months ago, and if you haven’t read it, you might find something there that resonates.

On Knowing/Not Knowing My Mother

In that post, I wrote:

“An astrologer once pointed out the area in my chart around motherhood. It was eye-opening, to say the least, and has helped me understand much about myself and my role as a mother in this lifetime.

We are all so different, and we don’t always project to the world (or to our parents or our children) who we really are deep down on a soul level.”

I believe in soul families. I believe in past lives. And I believe that my family members, including my children, are living out our lives together. Learning lessons together. Doing the hard work.

It changes everything when you have that perspective. It would be much easier, of course, if we all shared that belief.

But it’s okay. I’m content to focus on my own life’s path while having love and compassion for those who are dearest.

There’s a poem by Kahlil Gibran that rings true to me. I never encouraged my children to follow in my footsteps. Or discouraged them, for that matter. I have always just wanted them to be happy and fulfilled in what they do and how they live their own lives.

"On Children"

"And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, Speak to us of Children.
And he said:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable."

--Kahlil Gibran, "The Prophet"

We can’t possibly put ourselves in everyone’s shoes. Life gifts us with joy and heartache. It all ebbs and flows.

In my mind, we don’t need a “special” day that tends to throw fuel on the fire if we happen to be in the space of heartache.

Things can shift in a day. In one conversation.

Maybe that shift will take a lifetime. Or two.

I’d like to send some love out to mothers everywhere.

To the ones who struggle in the role.

To the ones who revel in it.

To the mothers who need mothering themselves.

To the one who yearns to be a mother.

To the adoptive mother.

To the birth mother who selflessly gave her child to someone else to mother.

To the single mother.

To the mother of a special needs child.

To the sick mother.

To the Earth mother.

To the fierce Mama Bear mother.

And may we honor ourselves that we have taken on the hardest job of all in this lifetime.

Much Love,
Barbara

P.S. Speaking of Mama Bear, these photos were captured on my outdoor camera, where the path leads into the woods.