It took me 34 years to appreciate the magnitude of what it is to be a mother. Two years ago I had my first of two children and suddenly everything changed. The selfishness that is inherent within us in our role as ‘child’ moved aside – practically overnight – and made way for a newfound selflessness as a parent; a selflessness that seems only to increase over time.
All of a sudden, so much of what was asked of me as a ‘child’ made sense. I now sympathise with the (previously irritating) “can you let me know when you get there safely” requests, the seemingly endless strings of questions about my day/life, and the daily reminder to “wear something warm”. Those traits of a mother that used to cause me to roll my eyes or dismiss a comment out of hand; now I see where they came from. They came from caring so deeply, unconditionally and wholly for someone that you would go to the ends of the earth – or certainly the ends of a WhatsApp chat – to try and protect them.
Becoming a parent has changed my life for the better in entirely unquantifiable ways. I feel love; the levels of which I didn’t know existed before. I have reserves of energy that, somehow, never completely run dry, no matter how few hours of cumulative sleep I have had in my children’s lifetimes. My, admittedly, steely determination has been tested and pushed and stretched in ways I could never have imagined in my life before kids (LBK).
I have also had real lows; the kind of lows that can only come from constantly fearing for the welfare and safety of a dependent who relies upon you so utterly and completely. The kind of lows that come as a result of the sometimes overwhelming sense of self-loss. Your time ceases to be your own. Your personal space has nothing personal about it anymore. Every decision you make has the in-built (albeit sometimes subconscious) addendum of “what impact will this have on…?”. Your mind gives you entirely incompatible desires, driven by the coexisting but often disagreeing ‘LBK self’ and ‘parent self’.
Is it worth it? Without a doubt. Is it hard? Sometimes crushingly. Would my LBK self do it again? In a shot.
I am only a few years into my parenting journey and already I feel a lifetime of tiredness and anxiety have settled into my psyche. I can only imagine – or even try to imagine – what it feels like to have almost 40 years of motherhood under your belt. What marks have been cast or wounds inflicted? What joys beheld that no one will ever be able to share because they are just etched as a tiny fragment of a memory in a mother’s mind?
As I lie on my mother’s bed, holding her hand, fighting back tears to see her so fragile and weak, these thoughts course through my brain. I know that even through her illness and her mental confusion, her overriding desire is to protect me at all costs. The occasional comments about my warmth, or how I’m looking tired, or the suggestion that I lay my head down next to her and get some rest to regain some strength. It’s all about me. I see it in her eyes that her whole existence in that moment is inextricably bound to her need to take care of her child.
Don’t get me wrong – my mother had a successful career. She returned to work after three months each time when my brother, and then I was born. It was my mother who was the breadwinner and who left the house at 0730 in the morning, not returning until 1930 at night. She often mentioned to me when I was younger that she wished she had seen more of us growing up, in the early years. She would always be honest, though, and admit that playing with babies and small children was not really her strength; an honesty that I have always respected. I, too, have continued to work through my own children’s first months and years and, honestly, have needed it to keep sane. For some, taking care of children full-time gives more satisfaction than any other pursuit. For others, it is going to work that offers that sense of self-fulfilment. Understanding and accepting what makes you happy, calm and motivated as a parent is so important (and it’s not something that can be gleaned from spending hours comparing your own life to other people’s Instagram pages – that’s one thing for certain).
When facing the end of my mother’s life, my brother and I as children can only now start to comprehend what we have meant, and do mean, to her. I look at my kids and their sheer existence brings me joy. When my son asks to hold my hand, the rest of the world stands still as my heart is fit to burst. I think back on all the times I shied away from that hand holding and hugging with my own mother and I feel sad and ashamed. What sacrifice is it for a child to hold their mother’s hand and make her feel loved? It is nothing at all. To a mother, however, it is the world.