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| Dogs teach children lessons a parent never could. |
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| he hates to admit it, but he loves his mumma taking photos |
It can be hard not to feel
dejected at times, beaten within an inch of my life by the constantness that is
motherhood. I sit here failing to grasp just how I could articulate what it is
to be a mother. For all its beauty and for all it’s overwhelming purpose and
simplicities, motherhood, leaves you with pangs of defeat, moments where no
attempt no matter how great could ever abate those feeling of disenchantment
one simple moment can bring you.
I spoke with one of my friends
just the other day. We spoke of how as parents we unite, yet as mothers we can
at times feel so alone, so isolated. What
do you mean? You might ask. Well what I make reference to is that part of
mothering that ceases to take pause, the constantness. That part where it is
always mum as option A, dad as option B.
I sat at home the other day,
writing, trying my best to get in the ‘zone’ and I suppose truly, it was a fail
on my part to even assume that was possible, to get into to any form of zone
with little feet parading around the house. What wore me thin more than
anything else though, was that although their father sat almost less than 3
meters from me, with them whilst they watched some afternoon cartoons, it was
me they proceeded to come up to an ask, for permission, for help, to inquire,
to dob. I found myself in states of complete disenfranchise. How could
mothering be such a menial task! How could everything I love, everything that
fills me with that heart wrenching love, also take me to some of my darkest
parts of myself? I sat that disillusioned with the revelation that this is the
mothering that is not talked about. This is not what they tell you about in
parenting classes, or on those heartfelt blogs about the authentic, totally
enamoring gift of parenting. And truly I love my children, that is not to be
questioned, what I question instead is the ability to love myself, and to love
it on my own terms, to be able to be anything other than mum all of the time.
To have those moments which solely are mine, to have moments where dad is
chosen first, if not purely out of proximity.
I am one of the lucky ones, I
have an amazing husband and brilliantly engaged father – he is cooking AND
doing the dishes as I type here fervourously. So why do they choose me, why do
I have the constantness?
Why because I am mum, and that is
what we do without question of condition.
It will abate with time, I know…
I hope. And in the shadows of that loss, years from now, I know I’ll draw a
tear as I find reverie in the times when they needed me so fiercely.
Yet until then, I want you to know,
that this is the part of mothering they don’t tell you about. This is the part
that hurts, the part where you feel lost and tired, the parts where you can’t
wait for bedtime, where you feel disillusioned and lied to. They are transient
but they are real. Mothering is real and it is ok to feel defeated because
tomorrow you will rise to the occasion once more, you will stand strong and
roar your mothering roar to the face of the wind as it dares to call your
bluff. Because your love is fierce, your love is strong and it will stand unwavering
against those dark moments despite what you think you feel, despite feeling as though
you have been crushed by the constantness of mothering. Because that is what we
do, we are mothers and our love is never broken, it is only hidden beneath
surface, always ready to break free.
