When moms gather together and exchange birth stories, or nursing stories, or baby stories, I have nothing to contribute, except, perhaps, second-hand stories.
I have never been awakened by a squalling child at 12:00, 2:00, and 4:00 night after night after night.
I don't know what it's like to walk around permanently sleep-deprived.
I've never heard a child call me "Mommy", except by accident.
I've never watched my child sleep at night.
I've never sat up worrying, waiting, watching for my missing teen-adult-child to come home at night.
I've never watched my child make foolish, heart-wrenching, God-forsaking choices.
I am not a mother.
I am reminded of that often throughout the year. "You don't get it. You're not a mother." It's not meant in a harsh or cruel way. It's just a fact. It's true. There are things that I don't get, because I'm not a mother. I haven't had those experiences. I can understand in a generic sense, but I don't understand from personal experience. I can imagine, but it's just imagination. For 364 days of the year, everyone realises this.
And then comes Mother's Day. And suddenly, the whole world seems to want to pretend that I am a mother. They want to "include" me.
But I am not a mother. I am a daughter. I am a sister. I am an aunt. I am a friend. I am a teacher. I am a mentor. I am all these things. They are good and honourable and God-honouring roles, all of them, and I am honoured and privileged beyond measure to carry those roles. I love dearly the roles God has given me. But I am not a mother. And Mother's Day is not my day. Pretending it is changes nothing. Tomorrow, everyone will go back to reality.
Let's face the fact: Mother's Day is exclusive. It excudes every woman who does not have kids, and every person whose mother has died. The day is called Mother's Day, not Women's Day, not even Like-A-Mother's Day, and while I am a woman, and may even be like-a-mother (although I'm not sure about that) I am not a mother. My horse doesn't count.
And let's face the fact: Mother's Day is painful for many people. If I was not a mother but wanted to be, the day would be painful. If my mother was alive but absent, the day would be painful. If I had horrific memories of my mother (thank God I don't), the day would be painful. I don't think that having people tell me that this day is for me, too, would make the day any less painful. I know, in my heart, that this day is not for me.
It's not my day. I'm not a mother.
Is that such an awful thing? Is womanhood defined by motherhood? Is my value defined by my reproductive genius? Am I only worth celebrating under the umbrella of "motherhood"? Am I only of value insofar as I can mimic motherhood? Hardly. My roles are important. My nieces and nephews need me, not to be a mother, but to be an aunt. My students need me to be a teacher and a mentor. My brothers and sisters-in-law need their sister. My mom needs me to be a daughter. My friends need a friend. Those roles are precious and valuable and unique. They are worth celebrating, not under the guise of "motherhood," but in their own right.
And what about the fact that Mother's Day is painful for so many? Is that such an awful thing? Why do we try to make it less painful by attempting to somehow include those who are not included? If motherhood is important enough to have a day to celebrate it, then the loss of motherhood is important enough to grieve, deeply and keenly. Isn't it? Grief is a good and healthy thing. It indicates the loss of someone who is or is supposed to be special, important, treasured. Someone worth celebrating. Someone like Mom.
Motherhood is worth celebrating. It is also a unique and precious and valuable role. No one can completely take the place of a mom. Others may fill aspects of the role, but they will never fill the role completely. "Like a mom" is not "mom". Motherhood is special. So let's celebrate it.
So what if some of us cry? Tears are part of the celebration. Why can't we see that?
And so what if it doesn't include me? I'm ok with that. Why aren't you?
No comments:
Post a Comment