Everyday Mothers Day

Mothers Day is always filled with many mixed emotions for me.  Until 2006 it was a day I felt sadly disconnected to because having lost my mother when I was ten the reality is I can't really remember celebrating a Mothers Day with my mum.  I don't remember if I made her a card, picked her flowers or brought her breakfast in bed.  I hope I did.

When I became a mother it shifted a little, but if I'm honest the absence of my mum always tainted the day and left me feeling empty and alone.

Then about year ago I had a revelation.  Until that point my sadness over the loss of my mother had been in many ways a selfish one - that I had grown up without her.  But as I marveled casually at my children it hit me that her loss was in some ways so much greater - she didn't get to watch her 4 children grow up as I was watching mine.  

It wasn't even about the firsts - first tooth, first step, first day of school, first day of college, first job, first true love and first grandchild - it was all the little things in between.  It was the unexpected kiss on the knee for no reason at all, it was the handwritten note with a love heart that now lives in my wallet, it was the tooth knocked out before it's time and placed under a pillow for an unprepared tooth fairy, it was the little warm hand that still reaches to be held when walking down the street and the dozy smile early in the morning.

I know it's sad not to expect a lifetime with my children, but by not taking that for granted, I have become hedonistic with the time I have with them, and I have started to enjoy the simple pleasures of motherhood so much more.  There are many landmarks in life, but it is the days leading up to them can be so much more meaningful.

Beauty

I took my six year old son to MoMA yesterday.  He is growing up in New York and I often forget the amazing cultural resources that are on my door step.  He was initially skeptical but soon he found himself lured in by the dream like jungles of Henri Rousseau, Jasper John's American Flag and Dali's melting clocks.

Lady Rosa of Luxembourg by Sanja Ivekovic 

While we were there, I happened to look down onto one of the most breathtakingly beautiful sculptures I have ever seen.  It is hard to tell if it was the setting, the lighting, or the sheer majesty of golden vision towering up through the atrium in front of me, but I was transfixed.  Then I looked at the sculpture by Sanja Ivekovic more carefully and I realized that it was of a pregnant woman. 

It's not that I needed to be reminded of how beautiful a woman is when she's pregnant, I see it every day, but I think I have started to take it for granted a little.  A life within a life is nothing short of miraculous.  I have experienced it twice before and for every reason under the sun my life will never be the same again because of it.

When I was pregnant, I noticed that people swore less around me, strangers would smile at me (even if they didn't give me their seat on the subway) and strangest of all, my friends would stop discussing their sex lives with me.  It was like I had become almost virginal, even when my pregnancy clearly suggested quite the opposite!

It reminded me when I first moved to New York and I went to see a production of Shakespeare's Cymbeline at the Delacorte theatre in Central Park.  What made the production so memorable to me was that the actress who played Imogene was pregnant, even though the character wasn't. It made everything seem ethereal and I was absolutely transported by her maternal beauty.  

Cymbeline, Public Theater

Even as a bright eyed and bushy tailed twenty three year old who was very far removed from pregnancy, I was captured by it's beauty, just as I was yesterday.

So if you are pregnant and even if you don't feel particularly beautiful or ethereal, trust me - you are.

Optimism

It should never be underestimated how much we can learn from our children.  Today I was reminded how wonderful optimism is.  

I was about to leave the house with my 3 year old daughter and we were putting on rain boots, warm coats and hats.  It was cold, wet and very gloomy.  She then went to get her sunglasses.

"Marigold, it's raining."  I said politely.

"But Mumma, the sun might come out."  She replied.

I loved her optimism.  

"Yes Marigold, you're right.  It just might come out."

So we both left the house with our sunglasses, just in case.  And you know, I swear I saw the tiniest bit of blue sky.