Mother

To me, a mother is an impossible expectation.

I think of fear. Not only for the child’s safety. Not only for what it out of our control. Not only for the inevitable future as a result of climate change.

No, I mostly think of fear from the people who know you and your abilities better than anyone else – society.

“Reckless,” they tell her. “Foolish. Completely incapable,” to the teenager unwilling to terminate.  

“How sad. How does she cope? Drugs or alcohol presumably,” is whispered out of ear about the single mother of two. 

“Can she please control her child? For heaven’s sake. I would never let my kid behave like that, let me tell you,” is snickered through a mouthful of food.

And then I think of my own. The reckless, foolish, incapable, sad mother.

I remember my temper outbursts in the shopping centre. I recall the looks of embarrassment my mother gave when I would not obey her warning. I recall us walking hand in hand, me skipping along with a lolly as we headed to the bus stop. I am glad I however do not recall the looks disapproval from the passengers – the shame my mother must have felt for bringing me into this world.

The term mother makes me think of my own and the weight society bestowed upon her but also the weight she put on herself. Then I went to live away and her heart broke and her face crumbled in failure and despair because she tried, but perhaps she didn’t try hard enough?

She was not a good mother, she thought. She was not what she should be, she said.
I’ve heard her apologies a thousand times over. 

“I forgive you mum. Always have. Now it’s time for you to forgive yourself.”