letters and lattes

This June my daughter will be turning seven and so, on the second Sunday in May, I will be observing my seventh Mother’s Day and seven years of officially being in the hood. Motherhood. In terms of the professional world, that would make me eligible for pro rata. A little taste of long service leave – wouldn’t that be nice.

The hood is filled with great complexity, with much to navigate, not least of all our own feelings. I recently wrote in a card for a baby shower something like; the newborn stage is filled with joy, adjustments, weariness, doubts and an abundance of love. In my experience so far, it can be said of all subsequent stages (in varying degrees).

So far it all seems very nice, doesn’t it? Can I tell you a little more of my personal truth? I dread, deeply deeply dread, the second Sunday in May. In part, this is due to a lot of what we mothers carry. We sacrifice and plan for others and coordinate others needs and desperately want time for ourselves and also desperately want a beautiful moment with our family that we did not have to plan. 

And the other part, the Mother wound. Many of us have one and we carry it like a bad limp, pretending it isn’t there and soldiering on as best we can hoping no one can perceive our abnormality. But just as the cold stiffens the arthritic knee, there are some days when this limp is far more apparent. We would much rather sit at home than move in the world with our incredibly stiff leg.

Every Mother’s Day I like to send a happy Mother’s Day message to a woman in the hood I see killing it, who maybe feels unnoticed. We carry and do so much, seen and then all the unseen. Every year I choose someone else to send off a thoughtful message to. I express my gratitude, appreciation and admiration for how I have seen them as a mother – recognising there is much unseen – and how this has been an example for me. I thank them for role modelling to their children and to others, like me, who are watching and learning from the sidelines. And I say thank you. Because how often do we get a message which simply says “I see you, I value you, I thank you.” And also because I can’t send this message to my mother. Not because she isn’t here, she is.

Navigating my mother’s expectations has always been a little tricky. This trickiness increased tenfold when I became a mother and 2020 saw us hit a tipping point. May 2020 was my first Mother’s Day as a mum of two. We were early in those pandemic days and gatherings were still limited. Everything was take-away, with openings beginning the following week – notably after Mother’s Day. I had spent weeks between feedings and nap times, the short windows of productivity with a 6 month old and the limited engagement of a 3y.o making cards. We traced our hands and made stencils, cut out of various coloured cards to create a garden of flowers. On the day we went for a drive, a semi-frequent necessity to enable the second of three naps and also break up the day. We delivered three cards and grabbed a coffee on our way.¹ A chorus of ‘thank you!’ And ‘how sweet!’ And ‘what a lovely surprise!” Chiming on our cell phones. Could we have done more? Possibly. Did we have the capacity at that time for more? Definitely not. The worst, a few days later, when my mother’s “thank you” warped to criticism and disappointment in unmet expectations and once more sang the chorus that (1) I am not seen, in my striving and limitations and (2) I am not enough.

This was the start of a very difficult, but also much needed, journey in our already complex mother-daughter relationship. One of boundaries and naming expectations and resetting to move forward. 

However, the ghost of that day hangs over me. I know it is silly, but my deep lament is not just that I spent hours making these cards for it to not be appreciated, but more so that I don’t have one. In my focus and weariness I did not keep a single flower for myself. I don’t think any mother, possibly any woman, reading this would not be able to find themselves in that metaphor. 

I did not keep any flowers* (*insert: energy, compassion, time, etc) for myself.

Unless you know me very well, I doubt you would be aware of my limp. So consider for a moment: how many others might be limping around you and you have not even the slightest clue? The moral of the story? Be kind. Always. Go gently.

This also tells us to let go of our assumptions this Mother’s Day (and beyond). The woman in her late 30s might not be grieving this Mother’s Day, she might be absolutely wildly content in her childlessness. The woman you’re asking when she is going to have a (or another) child, might be deeply grieving a miscarriage. The woman you think is killing it might be absolutely bone deep exhausted and limping unseen. Let go of your assumptions – be kind. Go gently. 

As the second Sunday in May approaches, for many a bright light of joy on the horizon, for others a sense of doom and a dark shadow spreads across our minds. It has been sweet the last few years seeing Instagram posts of “thinking of the one who… this Mother’s Day” and insert a complexity simplified to a one-line qualifier. As nice as it is, like many aspects of our current culture and social media age, it is mostly either purely performative or a signpost for our own position. What to do then? 

Firstly, let us be open and honest with ourselves. With our loved ones and what our expectations are of this day and our needs. Whether we are in the hood or not. Ask for what you need, be clear in how you are feeling and affirm the boundary you need to hold.

Secondly, let us genuinely offer care to those we love who have a Mother wound. Let us help carry them as they try to limp on in an especially cold day. Let us resist extending love and grace which is purely performative and do so genuinely.

Thirdly, I would encourage you to lift up those you know in the hood. Who can you send an encouraging message to? Who do you know who is new in the hood and could use your love, encouragement, support or just a great cup of coffee and a chat?

If you, like me, are walking with a limp, I see you. And I’m sorry. I hope you have others in your life who are helping to hold you up and encourage you, especially on the cold days. Consider additional support if you need it, read² about your wound, see a counsellor, be brave enough to reach out and ask for help if you are hurting.

With all the love in the world, dear reader, it is (mostly) a good hood.

Be kind. Go gently. 

Go well,

Steph

¹ I feel I should add here that autocorrect changed ‘way’ to ‘weary,’ and it seems fitting. We grabbed a coffee on our weary.

² I would highly recommend Our Mothers, Ourselves (2015) by Dr. Henry Cloud and Dr. John Townsend.