It’s Mother’s Day. What does it mean to be a mother? I know the mother in my life still holds a gargantuan place in my heart. Even though she was far from a perfect mother, I like her. I always have, even when I hated her.
I recently found the trove of letters we wrote back and forth to each other over the decades once I left home, many handwritten, many typed on an old typewriter. E-mail has destroyed the richness of letter writing, but I make it a point to save all my mom’s emails so that I can go back and read them when she is gone.
I’ve always wondered about my mom, wondering what she thought about at such and such an age, the age I am now, or was back then in any particular photo. There’s a picture of me and her eating lobster. I’m in my twenties. Her hair is white already, though she’s only in her late forties. I think about who I was at age 48-49. Did she think deep thoughts like I did about who she was and her place in this world? Did she love herself? Know herself? Did she struggle with her sense of purpose and meaning in the world? Her place as my mom?
I think about my kids and what I mean to them but try not to think about it too much because who they think I am and who I truly am will always be separate. Or will it? It must be. Our kids don’t ever truly know us. They only know the fraction of us that is appropriate to know as our children.
Yes, I want my kids to know me, if they want to know…
When I pried into my mom’s past wanting to know all about her, know what she thought and felt, what her life was like as a teen, as a young woman living on her own in New York City, I wanted an insight into who raised me. I am perfectly willing to share that with my kids and have in many ways, and in some ways I have not. I still hold up a barrier. If they asked me though, would I tell them? Maybe I’d say, “What is it you want to know?” Yes, I want my kids to know me, if they want to know, if they are curious.
Being a mother is so terribly complicated. I feel the responsibility of it weigh on me heavily, what I owe these glorious souls who have entered this life through my body. I don’t own them. I don’t own their souls. I released them into this life. They are God’s children now. But still, even as adults I worry about them, want them to be well, to feel fulfilled, to love themselves, to be loved and to love. They do all these things and for that I am happy, gratified, and yet still, I worry, as if I want to protect them from all hardships. But no, they deserve all of life just as I did. I only hope I equipped them with enough tools to get them started and make it on their own and to discover and build their own tools. I believe I have done that.
We teach our children to be good stewards of themselves.
How can I continue to be a good mom to my adult kids? How can I be there for them now that they no longer need me? They love me freely, and I love them. I guess that is all that is needed at this point. But being a mother is not all that I am and not even who I am. I am a soul, just like everyone else in this world. I am me, and one of the things I have done has been a mother. How amazing is that? I have been a mother. And on this day, the world celebrates us women who have done that. I accept the celebration. I celebrate all of us women, mothers or not. We teach our children to be good stewards of themselves, to be responsible, loving citizens.
Would I still die for them?
In a heartbeat.