So far, my Mothers Day experiences haven’t lived up to the “Hallmark Commercial” expectation. Last year, Inigo decided to stop breastfeeding, preferring to scream until he got the formula that he knew I had to give him.
This year, he woke up screaming at 4am, and alternated screaming and using me as a chew toy for over an hour, before I gave up and asked mark to deal with him. Some panadol later, and we got to sleep in until 8am.
For many of us, Mothers Day has an expectation that we will be appreciated for what we do every day, year in, year out, and rarely get thanked for. For some, it’s time to put your feet up, expect breakfast in bed, delivered by clean angelic children in pristine white clothing, accompanied by a ruggedly handsome man with a twinkle in his eye. But for most, it’s a day like every other day, with, perhaps, a card, and a special lunch, and that’s about it.
So what is it really about?
After reading this post, I know what it’s about. It’s about introspection, and thinking about the good parts of mothering, and glossing over the crap. It’s about recognising the freaking awesome it is to know the love of a child. And knowing that no matter how much they love you, you’ll always love them more.
Years ago, when I was adamant that I was never going to have a baby, my mum said that she worried that I would miss out on “something”. She never articulated any more than that, just that there was a certain something that I would never experience if I didn’t have a child.
And today, I understand. You were right mum.