Next Sunday we will celebrate Mother’s Day. Festival which, originally, was to celebrate the contribution of women and mothers to society and which has quietly transformed into a gold mine for florists and chocolatiers.
So it was by imagining a bunch of toddlers finishing their macaroni necklaces that I wanted to offer my thoughts on the vast subject of motherhood. Not because there is a lack of literature on the subject, quite the contrary. Between medical guides and psychology books, novels, personal stories and even philosophical essays, books that address motherhood are so numerous that they allow you to explore every possible and imaginable angle. From depression postpartum to home remedies for chapped nipples, from our sons’ Oedipus complex to our feeling of uselessness once the children have left the nest, everything has already been said, and this, by people sometimes highly qualified than Me.
But the truth is, I don’t know life other than as a mom. My first baby arrived when I was only 19 years old. I might as well say that I became an adult and a mother at the same time. Well-meaning, but poorly equipped people repeated to me in unison and in every tone: “You are going to waste your youth! » I often refrained from telling them that by dint of being such killjoys, it was they who seemed to be on the road to wasting their old age. I let them say it, knowing deep down that this early motherhood was in fact my salvation.
I precisely needed to give meaning to my existence. Without this child, I might still be adrift somewhere in space, desperately searching for a planet with a gravitational pull strong enough to keep my feet grounded.
I was convinced that this immense responsibility, that of creating a human, of protecting him, guiding him, supporting him, setting coherent limits for him, and above all giving him the tools to flourish, would allow me to deploy my abilities. emotional, organizational and my great resourcefulness.
Of course, I didn’t have the same twenties as my friends who entered life looking for thrills. I didn’t make an introductory trip to South America or Western Canada with a backpack, worn sandals and a crazy desire for adventure. In my own backpack, there was a little boy that I brought everywhere, sure, but who also required me to plan three meals a day, balanced meals, what’s more.
Obviously, I was going to make mistakes like all mothers in the world, regardless of their age. Being too demanding or not demanding enough, too present or not present enough, too complicit or not enough. The list of my maternal wanderings is long. The time I hurt him by mistaking his squirrel drawing for a snail, the time I shamed him in high school by reminding him that he was banned from going out in front of all his friends, dozens of times where I lacked listening or patience, the hundreds of times I named my fear instead of naming the right ways to avoid danger.
When my other two children were born, in my mid-30s, I was even more aware of the pitfalls that awaited me. I knew that, despite all the good will in the world, one day or another I was going to fail in my role as a mother.
From childbirth to the end of their schooling, we ultimately control very few things. Each child comes into the world with their personality, their needs, their desires, their cursed vegetable. We may want a multitude of things for them, but they will do what they want or simply what they can.
And this is where motherhood takes on its full meaning, in the acceptance of the journey to be taken together, with compassion, humor, openness and love. This path will not be without pitfalls or without pain or renunciation, but it will also be strewn with fabulous surprises, sweet discoveries, resilience and unforgettable memories. I believe that our job is simply to do the best we can to offer our children a reassuring and stimulating environment, to open our arms when they need to curl up in them, for the duration of a big sob.
Then, one day, they become adults, their choices are no longer ours, but with a little luck, they will still need us a little for the tarte Tatin recipe or gardening advice.
Since the beginning of this text, I have been talking about “biological” motherhood because it is the only one I have experienced, but there are several ways to play the role of a mother. It is not necessary to share genes with our offspring to be a mother. Just like it is not because we give birth to a little human that we become a de facto mother. It is above all a question of connection and transmission.
I would like to end this text by offering all my tenderness to the women who have lost their child. Whether we are a mother for one day or 60 years, it’s like a tattoo, it’s written in our flesh. Nothing in the world prepares you for the loss of a child, because it is against the natural order of things. To you who won’t be able to post on your social media a photo of breakfast in bed brought by clumsy little hands, I say: this celebration is also yours and you deserve to receive a ton of love.