Tomorrow will be my very first mother’s day with a child old enough to understand the concept, and even though it hasn't even arrived yet, it might just be the most perfect one I’ll ever have…
Wonderland #1 proudly brought home a haphazardly potted Pansy from childcare on Wednesday, and with it her little face carried the weight of a thousand precious accomplishments, she was so immensely proud and has asked me at least twenty times since if it’s mother’s day yet so can give it to me properly. She told me she picked the yellow one because it’s my favourite colour. She said that the green bow is a bit crooked and she can fix it with ‘ticky take’ if I get it off the high shelf for her. She said that mother’s day is when you tell mummy that she’s beautiful. She said that daddy would make me a cup of tea, but that when she was bigger and it wasn’t so ‘danger’ she would do it for me instead of dad because I’m her favourite mummy ever. She said that her brother and sister were too little to know about mother’s day, but that she knew, and she wouldn’t do anything naughty all day. It’s impossible to articulate exactly how touching her sentiment is, heavenly little child. And I know, yours is just as wondrous.
This year, mother’s day isn’t about me, it’s about them. There will be no massages or expensive lunches; we will do something simple, gather as a family and do something that lights up their little faces with glee, because seeing them happy gives me that grounded, yep-I-am-doing-something-right-and-I-am-the-luckies-person-on-earth feeling, and I love that feeling, it renews me, fills in the little voids of those day to day insecurities. It genuinely completes me. That and the whole theory that I, me, turned out to be someone’s mother. Phwaor…
I flounder at the thought of reproduction; it is the closest real life thing to magic. It’s a marvel, and the pure phenomenon will never ever be lost on me. The rarest cell in my body, and the smallest cell in my husband’s got together and made a tiny little person. Three tiny little people. It’s the most primitive, and easily the best thing about being a human; that God imparted this divine capability to us is a true gift that I now cherish above all others. To grow, nourish and birth a baby is genuinely my favourite thing to do, I would do it over and over and over again if my body and situation allowed. I would do it for anyone (calling all surrogate seekers – here I am!). And it doesn’t end there (it never ends!), raising a child is the greatest investment we ever make, there is no parallel. We sign up for a deal that includes sleeplessness, heart-ache, tremendous frustration, exceptional personal challenge and torturous extremes, but out of the venture we score a breathtaking life, and we mould it, treasure it, nurture it, shape it and hopefully guide it into being the most wonderful version of itself that it could ever be.
Today I watched my babies going about their day, a quiet splice of time when they didn’t know I was spying. Wonderland #1 was pouring fictional cups of tea, Wonderland #2 was scrutinising the engineering of a toy train and little #3 was entranced by her own fingers. I felt my love for these little beings swell inside me to physical proportions. They are all so different, yet personify perfection in their own little way. I know that they will forever be my greatest personal achievement, and I love each of them with such ferocious intensity that I spontaneously start to weep. Then I erupt into sobbing, hot tears that burn a path down my cheek threatening to undo me completely. It almost hurts to be so in love. I know that I’m not unique to be experiencing this force, but today, during that moment the slow dawn of knowledge lit me up like sunshine… that’s how much my mother loves me (then the sobbing morphed into the impassioned moans of a hormonal, post-natal creature and had there been any witnesses present, an ambulance would have been summoned to medicate the crazy lady who was losing her beans). But the notion stays with me; my mum loves me like that, and I love them like that, and one day, God willing, they will know that love too. It goes around and around. Wow.
The thing is, and it’s a constant theme in all my blogs, my story is no different to yours. I’m not unique because you can relate (well at least you tell me you can), which shocks me completely and simultaneously encourages me. At times I feel like I’m the only one screwing up, getting it all so horribly wrong and missing the bits that matter, but I’m not on this journey alone – here you are, reading and intimately knowing how the intoxicating adoration we have for our babies both propels us and unravels us. And that’s the point of this indulgent prose; as mothers (parents), we are inflated by wonky potted Pansies and it buoys us for the next round of tantrums and troubles, and like the love we feel, and our mother’s felt before us, it is a perpetual motion of ebb and flow of the most exquisite variety. All we need is the occasional Pansy.
To my little ones, thank you. Thank you for choosing me to be your mama, your impact on my life has brought about some of the very best qualities in me and I will be forever in awe of you. One day when I’m a famous writer (I can dream!) you might stumble upon this clumsy and inadequate old blog post and know that on one beautiful autumn day I took some time out just to tell other people about how much I love you and share in the beautiful, universal love of a mother.
I’m off to enjoy my wonky little Pansy which I hope lives forever and ever. Happy mother’s day, Wonderlanders.