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You might know this woman. She’s bled and cried, cooked and cheered and handheld. Sometimes, you have found her enjoying a peaceful daydream in a pocket of the garden, pretending to be doing one of her many chores. Little did you know she was thinking of life beyond the yard Her existence beyond the maternal wall.
Not that she wanted to leap. Not that she craved permanent escape. Only segments of her day, here and there, where she paused to remember a time before her name was called in question, her council was sought for anything from a family argument to a burst water pipe to a dishonoured cheque.
You might even recognize this woman. She’s been hurt. She’s laughed so much, she doubled over with the sheer effort of the glee that wracked her body and tested her overworked pelvic floor. She’s driven and toiled, celebrated and empathized. She’s punished and rewarded and listened. One day you may have found her, crying over spilt milk or after her shower or as she emerged from the toilet. It might have astounded you. It may have frightened you, but as soon as she told you it was alright, you forgot about it.
There was yourself to think about, after all.
This woman is your mother. In the most fragile of relationships, you’ve detested and you’ve loved like no other. You’ve yelled and sneered and cursed the ground she walked on. You imitated her and revered her clothes so you, too, may look like a queen. You turned from her when she tried to enter your teenaged angst, raised your hand in a stop sign when you saw her coming close, embraced her like you were falling apart when you realized she was the only one who had the balm to apply for such weeping of the soul.
This woman, my mother, had no parents to guide her. She had a sibling who spent much of her time convalescing during her adolescent years. She married a strict man and she fathomed a family from the depths of somewhere between religious duty and womanly expectations. She spent years of her life driving children, tending illness, applauding, disciplining, preparing, feeding, cleaning and clothing, guiding, bossing, supervising, assisting, attending …
for so, so long.
She was mother first, woman second, an individual lost within the many voices who called ‘mum’ at the drop of a hat. Where did the woman go? The woman who longed to learn and was born to think independently?
She was always there. She exists still. And in the true spirit of motherhood, she did learn and she did think independently. You just didn’t realize it until it became a gift she bestowed upon the people she tended and the kids she grew.
I admire this woman, both as mother and person. I do not aspire to become her, because she is unique. I have warred with my mother, using the most lethal words available as barbaric weapons, and I have shunned her beliefs on the way to finding myself. But I love this woman; how could I not? Tis she who cared enough in the beginning to establish life for the little.
Happy Mumbo’s Day, lady. This is a song that reminds me of you:
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4 Responses to Mumbo
This is really beautiful, hon.
Happy day to you, your mom, and all the mothers in your fam. *hugs*
Thanks for this, petal. It’s lovely to have Mother’s Day (although it reeks of commercialism down here and I wonder if it’s the same for you). I just like ‘thinking’ about my mum and motherhood on that day. I don’t go for all the gifts and shite…
oh, unless I’m getting a new MacBook or iPhone or Mercedes. Then I’m all for commercialism and meditating about the meaning of motherhood is soooo overrated
x
Tears. Love it. x
Thanks Kate, love. Hope you had a happy mother’s day and you and your peeps are well x