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Motherhood: As it was done unto me
We learn about motherhood primarily from our own mothers, I think. And from our formally and informally adopted mothers, I suppose.
I learned almost everything I know from mine.
When my little sister was a baby, so I was about 3 at the most, my Nana had laid her across her lap and was patting her back and bottom to burp her. My baby sister was crying - probably screaming, actually - and my Nana said to me, "Isn't she very bold?" (bold meaning naughty), and I agreed that yes, she was very bold! Nana said, "Will I smack her?" and I replied -
"Babies aren't for smacking. Babies are for loving."
I remember my mother chasing me around the kitchen with a wooden spoon to smack me hard for being very very bold - but I don't remember her catching me. I remember her chalking hopscotch on the kitchen floor (quarry tiles) and teaching me how they used to play when she was a little girl. I remember her teaching me to skip (jump rope) and knit and sew. I remember sitting for hours turning the fabric for hair scrunchies inside-out because she made them to sell; we used to stretch them over a knitting needle.
I remember her being given a stick with which to beat my "foster-brothers" by their mother. I remember her burning it.
I remember her explaining to me and my little sister, when we were arguing with the girls next door over whether or not you had to be married to have a baby, that "some people think it's best to wait until you are married." She's one of those some people, but she didn't say so. In Ireland. In the 1980s.
I remember her making my first communion dress and it being the nicest dress anyone had ever had. I remember she made a matching handbag. I remember she made my confirmation dress too, and decorated the buttons to match, the day after my father's mother's funeral. I remember she made my wedding dress without question and without flaw.
I remember that Santa gave me a Ballet-Dancing Sindy one Christmas, which I wanted because it had very very movable limbs. I remember that my Sindy came with handmade jeans, lumberjack shirt and sweater included in the box, stitched to the card with plastic thread just like real packaged presents. I remember receiving a Bosco puppet in a proper Bosco box, equipped with a bed and bedclothes and everything. I didn't find out the box was home-made for years and years.
I remember being taught to comfort eat: I was told that eating very sugary, starchy foods made me feel a bit better in the short term, and it was an ok thing to do. She explained quite a bit of the biology to me in a ways I understood at the tender age of 13. I remember comfort-eating porridge made with milk instead of water. And custard.
I remember pitying people with skinny mothers because they couldn't be as cuddly as mine. I remember hating her wearing lipstick. I remember thinking she was beautiful in an ancient, tatty cardigan. I remember her getting me French lessons after school. I remember her teaching me to use a grape scissors (my Nana had one) and how to arrange food to look attractive. I remember being sick in bed and getting breakfast on Wedgewood china because I was too grown up for Bunnykins - a small bowl with a satsuma broken into a flower shape, a mug of rosehip tea, some toast cut into small triangles, and a bowl of cereal. Milk in a little jug and sugar in a sugarbowl.
I remember that this was normal for us when we were sick and that I took it as my due - I was pleased about it, but not in the least surprised.
I remember that when I was miserably depressed in my teens, she offered to find out about fostering, in case I'd be happier in another family. I remember that she believed I wasn't doing drugs when all the psychologists were convinced I was (she was right - at the time I wasn't touching even alcohol). I remember that after I'd left home, she came and got me when I was ill or depressed.
I remember that she held my baby for me when I could not because I had given birth only three hours before and still couldn't move much.
I remember that ever single day in hospital, I had fresh ironed pyjamas and clean underwear.
I remember.
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We should celebrate our mums more.
From another lucky person with a fanatastic mum :-)
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And you wonder why people read your journal. ;)
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I get along with mine -- now -- and she's a wonderful part of my life... now. As an influence when I was a kid, she was mostly nil, with occasional years of Really Bad. The one terrific effect she had on me was that she taught me by example what it means to be a sensible feminist: to treat men and women as matter-of-factly equal, to never assume that there's anything someone can't do just because of their sex, and to never give or withhold privileges or duties based on sex... but to accept courtesies offered, because that's the polite thing to do with courtesies, no matter who offers them or why.
The people I find myself being like as a parent, and that I most *want* to be like as a parent, are my father, who did most of the child-raising when I was young, and my "second mother" Grace, who looked after me when I was a toddler, remained my friend forever, and for whom my daughter is named. If my dad thinks I'm doing well by my daughter, then I think I am... and I hope Grace would think so, were she alive to see.
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My stepmother is...different.
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The next day she emailed me and my brother (who drove all night to be able to attend an earlier showing and then get back to school for meetings) to tell us that our efforts had made it the happiest night of her life. As far as I'm concerned, that's just as it should be. She sat patiently through endless school concerts and plays, beaming at me whenever I squinted through the stage lights to look for her. How could I possibly pass up the chance to do the same for her?
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In spades.
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I remember too hun
Why on earth where you wondering why people read your journal? You are fantastic at writing and straight to the heart.
Take care
Wow
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So I waited until 38 to have Squeeky. I think I broke the cycle.
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