On Mothering, and Being Mothered
I’m not going to write about Mother’s Day, per se. I’ll lean into the popular opinion that the upcoming “Hallmark holiday” is arbitrary, exclusionary and can be painful for many people, on many levels. Inevitably, it can be a disappointing day depending on how high expectations are set. Every year, I jokingly tell my family that I can’t wait to be treated like a baby bird, sitting in my bed all day waiting for pre-chewed food to be deposited into my wide-open mouth. It’s a funny thing to say because it’s disgusting and ridiculous, and not at all what I actually want.
There are lots of things I want, all the time, but especially on Mother’s Day. I’d like to be appreciated. To be treated with kindness and gentleness. To not have to make any decisions or solve any problems or carry any mental burdens, for one whole day. To eat a delicious brunch at a restaurant I was not in charge of selecting, at a table I didn’t reserve. I’d like to be seen and heard and understood. Basically, I’d like to be mothered.
It occurs to me that this essay is not so much about the one day (one measly day!) that we set aside to celebrate and honor mothers and all they do for us and the world, but rather a meditation on the act of mothering, and being mothered, which has nothing to do with being a parent.
A few months ago I went to see the movie Origin, a beautiful film written and directed by Ava DuVernay. It depicts the personal story of author Isabel Wilkerson as she researches and writes her powerful book, “Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents” which seeks to unravel racism, prejudice and the divisiveness we so often see in society. It’s a very powerful film. I was in a nearly empty theater with a friend on a quiet Wednesday afternoon. A woman sat alone in the row in front of me, just to my right. There is a particularly heartbreaking scene at the end of the movie which depicts a cruel incident of prejudice inflicted upon a young black boy in the racially segregated south of the 1950’s. The scene is long, quiet and incredibly painful to watch. The woman in front of me began to cry, and then to openly weep. Everyone in the theater was crying but her sobs were audible and heart wrenching. I didn’t know what to do to comfort this stranger. If I reached out to her, would she accept my touch or rebuff it? I decided that she shouldn’t feel alone in her grief, in the powerful emotions that the movie stirred in her. I leaned forward and rubbed her shoulders until the scene ended and her sobbing subsided. I touched her with a loving, consoling hand, one which I hope conveyed that while I couldn’t possibly understand the depth of her sorrow, I saw her, I was holding space for her pain, and she wasn’t alone. In a small way, I mothered her. I did for her what I hope someone would do for me if I were in agony in a public place.
Flash back more than thirty years. I was sitting on an Amtrak train, a college student on summer break traveling back to my home in Connecticut after a weekend visit with my friend in Boston. Those were the days when you paid for your ticket with cash on the train - there was no app on your phone or computer generated, pre-printed ticket. Money was tight and I’m sure I had very little to spend on beer and cabs during my Boston visit. In fact, I must have overspent or somehow miscalculated the cost of the train fare because I didn’t have enough when the conductor came to sell me a ticket. I was exactly $5 short. I had no credit cards, no way to magically make a few dollars appear in my purse, and the conductor was not swayed by my panic and shame. He left me to try and sort it out and said he would return. If I couldn’t come up with the additional $5, I would have to get off the train early, a good distance from home, and call my parents, something I was not eager to do. As he walked away, I was bereft, tearing apart my bag and muttering to myself. What was I going to do? As tears started to roll down my face, I looked up to see the person in the seat directly in front of me holding a 5 dollar bill aloft over his head. He didn’t stand to look at me, he didn’t speak - he just left his hand there until I saw the money. I hesitated a moment but he didn’t lower his hand. I took it and whispered my thanks to him between the seats. I was deeply embarrassed. I bought my ticket and promptly fell asleep. When I woke up as we approached my stop, the man was gone. I never saw his face but I’ll never forget the way this stranger had heard my distress and quietly, without judgment, offered help in a way that allowed me to maintain my dignity. He had mothered me.
If you’re very lucky, like me, you have kind, supportive friends and/or siblings who mother you in myriad ways, all the time. They show up with soup and gatorade when you’re sick. They send flowers when you have accomplished something big. They sit quietly holding your hand when you’re lost and broken. They cherish your children as their own. They listen as you repeat yourself, running the same old tape, over and over again. They tell you that you’re not crazy to think a certain way (when, in fact, you most certainly are). They tell you the truth even when you don’t want to hear it, but they do it gently and with compassion. They’ve got your back and are your biggest cheerleaders. They talk you off the ledge and out of the perseverating worry spiral with perspective and laughter. They do this because they love you, and because you do it for them. They see you in your totality - flaws, strengths and foibles - and they love you for all of it. They mother you in the best possible ways. They mother you in ways, perhaps, that your own mother didn’t, or couldn’t, or wouldn’t. When my mother passed away a few years ago, my dear friend said, “I didn’t know your Mom, and I don’t completely understand the relationship you had, but she gave you to me, and for that, I’ll always be grateful to her.” That was the most comforting, supportive thing anyone said to me at that difficult time.
Mother’s Day can and should be a fun, easy day when mothers (or mother figures, or caregivers of any kind) are celebrated, honored and showered with love. It can also be a complicated day for people who are grieving, alone, forgotten or estranged. It isn’t all sunshine and roses, brunch and handmade cards. I try to remind myself of this on a regular basis, not just on the second Sunday in May. I look for and hold onto the ordinary and extraordinary moments when I have the privilege of mothering another person or feeling their mothering love in return.
To those who celebrate, I hope you feel mothered in the best possible way this Mother’s Day.
Wow, you put into words what Moms around the world want ♥️
A beautiful message of the power of love.