Mother's Day.
May. 8th, 2005 11:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rivkaI am a mother.
"I have a baby," is mostly what I've been thinking since Alex was born. But now it's Mother's Day, and it's impossible to avoid the realization that there's this iconic social role, heavy with power and responsibility and significance, and it's mine. I need to figure out not just how to take care of a baby, but how to Be A Mother.
When I was a child, my mother was the unshakable bedrock of the universe. She always knew what to do. She could always handle whatever came up. She knew where everything was and what everyone was doing. She was Mom, she Loved Me, and she was There.
She wasn't the kind of parent who spent hours playing elaborate games with her kids. She would never quiz me on spelling words or multiplication tables, because she thought it was boring. But I sat in her lap to be cuddled until my middle teens. I stood on a chair at her side and helped her mix cakes. In the car, she led us in endless verses of "Kumbayah," filling in every conceivable verb. (Yes, I know that to adults that sounds like torture, but as preschoolers we loved it.) She coined the name "Starving Time" for the hour from 5 to 6pm, when we weren't allowed to have snacks before dinner. She brought us Dixie cups of cereal to snack on while we watched Saturday morning cartoons. She rewarded me with stickers for tying my own shoes, and took me to the Malt Shop for an ice cream sundae when I'd earned enough stickers. She cracked down on dinner table antics with the warning that "that's the way that milk gets spilled," responded to requests with a mock-tragic wail that "a woman's work is never done," and woke us up in the morning with sing-song encouragement to "rise, shine, and give God glory." She taught me to write and cook and sew and knit and drive and take care of babies. She taught me compassion and perseverance and good manners. She matter-of-factly assumed that I could do whatever I put my mind to, and passed the same attitude on to me. When we went hiking, she had me look for trolls under every little log bridge. She still puts our childhood construction-paper ornaments on the Christmas tree every year.
I remember the first time I saw her cry, the first time I saw her get hurt, the first - and only - time I heard her swear. I remember the immense power of each of those moments, the terrifying realization that Mom was a person, with human weaknesses, not a force of nature.
To Alex, I am the world. I wrap my body around her and she feels safe. She curls her tiny arm possessively around my breast while she eats. I am her nourishment and her warmth and her protection and her comfort. Even with her tiny infant attention span, she'll gaze into my eyes for five minutes at a time.
She's not old enough to know that I can fail her, that I can fall short, that I am only a person with human weaknesses. I don't always know what to do. I can't necessarily handle whatever comes up. I don't know where everything is or what everyone is doing. Alex is too young to know those things... but I'm not. Of course, from my current vantage point I also recognize that my mother wasn't made of unshakable bedrock either. She just made us think she was.
I am a mother. The power and responsibility are mine. I hope I can come close to filling my mother's shoes.
"I have a baby," is mostly what I've been thinking since Alex was born. But now it's Mother's Day, and it's impossible to avoid the realization that there's this iconic social role, heavy with power and responsibility and significance, and it's mine. I need to figure out not just how to take care of a baby, but how to Be A Mother.
When I was a child, my mother was the unshakable bedrock of the universe. She always knew what to do. She could always handle whatever came up. She knew where everything was and what everyone was doing. She was Mom, she Loved Me, and she was There.
She wasn't the kind of parent who spent hours playing elaborate games with her kids. She would never quiz me on spelling words or multiplication tables, because she thought it was boring. But I sat in her lap to be cuddled until my middle teens. I stood on a chair at her side and helped her mix cakes. In the car, she led us in endless verses of "Kumbayah," filling in every conceivable verb. (Yes, I know that to adults that sounds like torture, but as preschoolers we loved it.) She coined the name "Starving Time" for the hour from 5 to 6pm, when we weren't allowed to have snacks before dinner. She brought us Dixie cups of cereal to snack on while we watched Saturday morning cartoons. She rewarded me with stickers for tying my own shoes, and took me to the Malt Shop for an ice cream sundae when I'd earned enough stickers. She cracked down on dinner table antics with the warning that "that's the way that milk gets spilled," responded to requests with a mock-tragic wail that "a woman's work is never done," and woke us up in the morning with sing-song encouragement to "rise, shine, and give God glory." She taught me to write and cook and sew and knit and drive and take care of babies. She taught me compassion and perseverance and good manners. She matter-of-factly assumed that I could do whatever I put my mind to, and passed the same attitude on to me. When we went hiking, she had me look for trolls under every little log bridge. She still puts our childhood construction-paper ornaments on the Christmas tree every year.
I remember the first time I saw her cry, the first time I saw her get hurt, the first - and only - time I heard her swear. I remember the immense power of each of those moments, the terrifying realization that Mom was a person, with human weaknesses, not a force of nature.
To Alex, I am the world. I wrap my body around her and she feels safe. She curls her tiny arm possessively around my breast while she eats. I am her nourishment and her warmth and her protection and her comfort. Even with her tiny infant attention span, she'll gaze into my eyes for five minutes at a time.
She's not old enough to know that I can fail her, that I can fall short, that I am only a person with human weaknesses. I don't always know what to do. I can't necessarily handle whatever comes up. I don't know where everything is or what everyone is doing. Alex is too young to know those things... but I'm not. Of course, from my current vantage point I also recognize that my mother wasn't made of unshakable bedrock either. She just made us think she was.
I am a mother. The power and responsibility are mine. I hope I can come close to filling my mother's shoes.
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no subject
Date: 2005-05-08 04:09 pm (UTC)I feel sure you will. She is a remarkable woman, but she also prepared you well.
no subject
Date: 2005-05-08 04:09 pm (UTC)Happy (first) Mother's Day!
no subject
Date: 2005-05-08 04:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-08 04:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-08 05:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-08 05:59 pm (UTC)In some ways you can't fail. To Alex you will be, "mommy", forever and always.
In some ways you can't win, because you can't become the ideal you remember (the inner actor always sees the flaws, the audience sees only the performance).
I think, from all I've seen, you'll do just fine. That is all one can really aspire to.
TK
no subject
Date: 2005-05-08 06:11 pm (UTC)My realization of my mother as a *person* has only deepened our relationship. Someday our children will see us as fallible - but hopefully that will bring them closer to us, too.
I had to add you to my friends list
Date: 2005-05-08 06:45 pm (UTC)How on earth do you find the time to write all this? Colin is two weeks old today and I just managed to get his birth story put up the other day. Hokey smokes! I'm doing good just to get the few minutes to comment here, really. He's napping in the crook of his daddy's arm (while daddy snores--so cute!), but stirring and will probably want to nurse again very soon.
Re: I had to add you to my friends list
Date: 2005-05-08 11:51 pm (UTC)Re: I had to add you to my friends list
Date: 2005-05-09 02:37 am (UTC)Re: I had to add you to my friends list
Date: 2005-05-09 07:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-08 07:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-08 07:32 pm (UTC)Me, too.
I think we'll do okay, though.
no subject
Date: 2005-05-08 07:43 pm (UTC)You seem to have that part down already, and those seem to be the important bits as far as I can tell.
Happy first Mother's Day, and a wish for many more happy ones for you and your family.
no subject
Date: 2005-05-09 12:34 am (UTC)happy mothers day
no subject
Date: 2005-05-09 03:54 am (UTC)Happy Mother's Day
Date: 2005-05-09 08:39 am (UTC)The biggest motherhood deal for me was realising that *this* is how much my mother loves me. She's not very demonstrative. But it sure explains a lot.
no subject
Date: 2005-05-09 01:19 pm (UTC)-J
no subject
Date: 2005-05-13 04:24 pm (UTC)you're a natural, sweetie. your mom was totally right--you can do whatever you put your mind to.
*many hugs*