A glimpse of all my parts: A late Mother’s Day post
Does this day really dawn differently from any other? I woke at the typical hour, as ever an early bird. Reaching for my phone, I did my email and social media roundup. The hitch came when I read through a Facebook post, completely unprepared for the emotional avalanche that ensued. Someone had shared a Mother’s Day poem. It’s not in me to write a book review — you must do justice to it yourself. Here it is: Nobody saw you.
The poem resonates so much to so many that there is a whole article about it floating around on the web. Why it made silent tears track down my face was simple enough; substitute 3 am for 2 am of this very morning and a childish voice calling across the darkened hallway, “Mummy. Mummmmmy. Mummmmmmm!” And the rest, well, you know how it goes. You know, because you see. You see these roles we attach ourselves to. You nod because you know, maternal knowledge aside, that these unplanned loads are universal for women.
I won’t speak here of my husband, the man who has kept true to the understanding that a union between us would not be unequal. His responsibilities are different and only his own words would do justice to the burdens he carries. My thoughts are turned only to the daily cargo that I haul around in my wagon of feminine aspirations and failures.
It is the burden of the 2 am call that theoretically could be answered by either parent but only one name figures heavily in the child’s repertoire of nightly chants, because he feels that she will be the one who answers immediately. She will wake with a start, heart pounding, adrenaline rushing, ready to protect, ready for anything, even if it is only a summons for a midnight snack. However, he knows because he has practice, a knowledge built from infancy to present day. He knows bone deep that a cry for his mother will always be answered because that has been his life experience so far.
It was her burden, her load that the infant’s wail every two hours was portentous to the “let down” of milk, rushing, coursing down her chest to their twin outlets. There it flowed readily, gushed unhindered into the tiny hungry mouth. It was her burden when it dried up too soon, and the wail was no longer merely hungry but to her ears carried the pitiful whimper of starvation. It was her burden, when she ached for another woman’s perspective, her guidance but was too ashamed and guilt-ridden to pick up the phone and ask for help.
It was the weight of restarting that life-giving sustenance, when she attached herself to tubes, pumping hour upon hour until the little bottles filled with white gold and she heaved a tearful sigh of relief and gladness. It was hers, that burden, of negotiating with the inconveniently located daycare when her baby’s eyes had barely been open for three months, to hold his spot for two more weeks. Just two more weeks, please. We will pay, she said unnecessarily frantic, pushing the stroller on uneven pavements — not quite yet the expert on vehicle maneuvering that she will become in just a couple more months. She quietened her terror only when the voice on the other side calmed her and replied, “Of course!”
Her burden compounds, as she pumps her baby’s feed for the week, packs his bag that first day and drops him off. It’s a lonely burden, letting him go, handing him over to the cheerful woman on the other side of the door, racing to the car only to sit and bawl for a good 3 minutes. Three minutes she allows herself to feel guilt, sadness, relief, and terror. Pull yourself together, you silly cow, she berates herself as she sends a semi-cheerful text to her husband at his office. She goes home and wanders about still tearful but mostly bereft, straightening his nursery, cleaning the kitchen, itching for a glass of wine but knowing in three hours she must pick the infant from across town. Its her loving burden she carries back to the illegally parked car, as she coos down at his quizzical expression. “You haven’t forgotten me yet,” she scolds her boy. He coos back and waves his fat fists.
Her burden spills out into public spaces as she ambles through a playground only to be brought up short by some woman’s question; was she a nanny to this child? Her own child? How does she answer without baring her teeth in a snarl? A charming chuckle of denial and snort of laughter to ease her interlocutor’s embarrassment does it, but she feels like she has fallen short. Does she not look like a proper mother? As she glances at other well-heeled, bright-eyed women at the playground, in cafes and restaurants, the burden of benchmarking is also hers. She wonders at how they seem so perfectly situated in their role. She is only one step away from true contentment but stops short and wonders, does she exude the same amount of calmness and competently glowing motherhood? Another worry, this silly comparison, this fear of falling short.
Her motherhood swerves, tumbles through barriers, hops over obstacles, and takes flying leaps of joy and revels in pride as the months tear through the years and her baby thrives. He grows fat with nutrition and care, his smiles are dimpled and carefree, his annoyances fierce but short-lived. She is always just one or two steps ahead, but she is ahead. She has figured out the cadence. She doesn’t have all the knowledge, but she knows where to look, whom to ask, whom and what to trust. Yet her nights are still bookended with worries and anxieties. Is he eating enough? Is he eating the right food? Is he wearing the right clothes for the season, in fact, does he need more clothes and from where, whom does she source them from? What about his development? Is it on track? How can she know for sure? Why is he sick again from hand, foot and mouth? Shoes! Did she get enough pairs this year? Do they look good? She has standards. She won’t compromise on those standards. She needs to research pre-K! How does it work? She needs to send the enrollment forms in! She must call the school to follow-up because…, why haven’t they responded? And so, she lies awake before blissful sleep and first thing upon waking, always thinking, wondering, and worrying.
All this needless worrying. Her burden again. Needless they seem because everything always works out. Or do they? Would they work out without her constant administering, researching, cajoling, sorting, buying, scheduling, selling, planning? Maybe, but she is unconvinced.
Yet she also sees. Most days she will see those who look like her; mildly stressed, somewhat fed-up, harried, but unfailingly patient. She catches a glimpse of a snotty streak on a black skirt belonging to a young mother and smiles down at the long white one on her own navy work skirt — evidence of the clinging, distraught, mad as a hornet’s nest morning drop off. She sees her and acknowledges that there are categories of motherhood, and she is safely in one with a whole bunch of others. She sees these women, and she nods at them and shares a tired smile. She knows she’s Ok right now.
Here is the rub though. In the litany of unseen moments as a mother noted above, add many more of those as a woman, an employee, a wife, a friend, a daughter and sister. I could list those too, but you know them already. You’ve lived them, my sister, my friend. We’ve talked of them over lunch, at tea, at dinner, lying on a picnic blanket, clinking wine glasses at happy hour. We just didn’t call them that — we didn’t call them unseen moments, but weren’t they just that?
So, I’m brought back to the poem and to its wrenching but brilliant telling of unseen motherhood. I conjecture that maybe it’s more than simply a call to be seen in all her disparate parts as a mother. For me its resonance is much deeper. I see its message applying to us all as women regardless of the maternal instinct realized. Motherhood is almost incidental in this mix. If I weren’t a parent, would I still want to be seen for all that I do and have done during my existence? Would I want to be acknowledged for the sum of all my parts: my generosity of spirit, my snarky judgements of others, my moralistic higher grounds, my worker ant industriousness, my clever repartees, and generally ebullient spirits tempered by bedeviled blues on a Sunday evening? Seen for my aspirational kindness, maddening pursuit of control, and all the simple and sad failures? Yes! Like others I am that 3am mother in the poem, but I’m also more. Sans a child, I would consume that poem with a different yet similar strength of feeling, of a female unacknowledged in all her authentic parts. I would look at myself through those lens and wonder how I got there. I would ruminate on how to take all the many crooked and sharp pointy bits of me and put them together so that I became a visible “terrible-in-its-power” force for all to see.
This day is good. It’s a good reminder that we should be seen and that we can be seen, but not always as mothers. We should be seen for ourselves. Our whole crappy, imperfect, generous, neurotic, brilliant, talented, creative and quirky selves. Happy day to the women I have seen, see right now, and will forever attempt to see.
