Sunday is Mother’s Day. This weekend we have the kiddos, and then when they go home I’m having dinner with my mother, ergo the likelihood of me posting this weekend is slim, so here it is today:
I am not a mother. I made the conscious choice to not be a mother. Were I to one day become pregnant and end up being a mother, that would be fine and we would deal, but as of now, I am not a mother.
I am a step-mother. I became one in 2016, though I felt like one years before that. Recently M turned 13, and I thought back to the day I met him. He was five years old and explained to me the difference between Transformers and Decepticons. L was four, and I fed him a hot dog for lunch and taught him a secret handshake. E was two and very shy but watched my every move with those beaming brown eyes of hers while clutching a rubber duck that she eventually placed in my lap. K was only one and screamed and cried until Mark laid her on the bed and I sang her Too Ra Loo Ra, and she fell asleep, and I fell in love with them, before I’d even fallen for Mark.
Now they are the lights of my life. M and L are becoming such amazing young men, and the girls are bright and beautiful and talented. When they are with us, we create this cohesive family that I miss when they’re not around. I love them fiercely, and until they came into my life I didn’t realize a love like that existed, save maybe for what I feel for my sister. Which brings me to…
I’m also a Godmother. I became such at thirteen when Bernie was born. Technically I wasn’t old enough so I had to be called a “witness,” which I thought was just plain stupid. Then at twenty I did it again when Beth had D baptized. Obviously, I loved those kids. My sister needs no explanation-I lived beside her young self for years. D was like a daughter to me in some ways when she was young, and Beth was just starting out as single mom. We would dream together about her future. Now I look at her and see exactly what I hope the youth of today is. Not those tide pod eating idiots but real, down to earth, conscious and awake kids who have talent and drive and passion. I see this in both Bernie and D and I see it in so much of todays youth that it gives me hope.
So, while my “mothers” have prefixes, I still have found places to give that love to. Likely because I was taught to love, and that is because of the most important mother, my mother, Maureen.
I will not go on and on about my mom because to explain the amount of love she has given me would take years. It also leaves me speechless. How can one put into words a love so huge that it knows no depth? That Is what my mother feels for me. I like to think that it is akin to what I feel for my kiddos, but I know it’s not. I know their mother loves them like mine loves me and Bernie, and that is somehow so much more.
I’m okay with not being a mother. I like my privacy and alone time too much. Kids kind of squash that out. I don’t know if I could make the sacrifices that I have seen other mothers make. Although, maybe I could. I have seen some women downright rally the moment they found out they were pregnant, driven by an instinctual need to protect the fetus. Maybe it’s some superpower women have that lies dormant until we’re pregnant, maybe it’s animal instinct. Either way, the mothers I know are fierce warriors for their children, and I am proud to have made their acquaintances. So, Happy Mother’s Day, to them, to you, to all of us.
Me and Momma, sometime in the 80s.