Motherhood.
What does it mean to be a mother?
According to dictionary.com:
- the state of being a mother; maternity.
- the qualities or spirit of a mother.
- mothers collectively.
Does that help? Can we describe motherhood in these three definitions?
As I’m sitting in this coffee shop, trying to finish my novel, I watch as three women walk in together. All with matching curly hair. I watch as the adult woman picks up the child while waiting for their coffee. She holds her close. The little girl wraps her legs around the woman and lays her chin on the woman’s shoulder.
The woman strokes the little girl’s untamed hair. The little girl smiles, content. She pulls back to look her mother in the eyes. Both of them smile big toothy grins that light up their faces. They touch noses like Eskimos.
Then the little girl goes back to resting her head on her mother’s shoulder. The mother continues stroking her hair.
Tragedy strikes when the mother accidently pokes the daugher’s eye with her thumb. I get ready for the crying. Brace myself for the impact. I turn my music up, hoping to drown it out and focus on my writing.
The mother quickly realizes her error and pulls the girl back to look at her face. She examines the eye, while saying words that I can’t hear. The girl does not cry.
She rubs her eye and smiles at her mother, letting her know that she’s okay. Her head returns to its safe place on her mother’s shoulder. The barista calls out a name and the mother puts her daughter down. The daughter goes to grab the large sized coffee and promptly hands it to her mother.
I glance over at the third woman who walked in with them.
She sits at a table watching over the mother and daughter. This must be the grandmother. There’s a cane resting against the table. Her body looks frail, and I worry that the wind will knock her over when she walks outside.
Mother and daughter go to grandmother. Daughter jumps up and down in front of grandmother excitedly. Mother says something to daughter, who then goes to the door of the coffee shop.
Mother grabs grandmother’s arm and helps her stand up, slowly. I try not to stare, but my novel is forgotten as I watch three generations interact.
Mother helps grandmother walk to the door, which daughter holds open. I stare out the window and watch them get in their car. Daughter helps grandmother into the car, then mother helps daughter into her car seat.
Mother finally gets in the driver’s seat, after all her work is done.
The scene brings my thoughts to my own mother. She’s a mother to two daughters (and a son). She’s a daughter to my grandmother.
My mother is a safe space. Her arms that encircled me as a child, embrace me now as a fellow woman.
She refuses to stop calling me Baby Girl, even now when I’m 24 years old. I pretend to find it annoying, but I secretly fear the day when she’ll stop.
As a kid, my mother would kiss me on the cheek a lot. In disgust I would wipe it off. Then she would tell me “You’re just rubbing it in! Now it’ll be there forever!”
I’m so happy I rubbed them in. I can carry these kisses with me for the rest of my life. Then one day, I can pass them on to a child of my own.
The thing about growing up with a mother, you either want to be nothing like her, or you fear that you won’t be anything like her. I have big shoes to fill, and I wonder sometimes if I can ever fill them. My older sister, who hates when we call her Mother 2.0, is just like my mother in all the best ways.
Growing up, my sister was like a second mother. She cared for me like my mother would. I know she’ll be an amazing mom, and I can’t wait to watch her do it.
Of course, mothers are not always the women who birthed us, share our DNA, or raised us.
Your mother is whoever you decide it is. Some of the best mothers are the ones who have never carried a child in their womb. Some of the worst mothers are the ones who did.
I want to write about one of my best memories as a child, and it involves my mother.
It was a beautiful sunny day. I was probably around 10, maybe younger. My mother and I had gone out shopping. She took me to a bookstore at the end of the day. She bought me a Nancy Drew book. She told me that she used to love reading them when she was my age. She wanted to pass on that love to me.
When we got home, my siblings and father weren’t there. It was just me and my mother.
She made me my favorite childhood drink, a Shirley Temple. I took my drink and my book, and I went outside to our backyard, back when we had a swing set.
I sat on my designated swing, took a sip of my drink, and opened my Nancy Drew book to the first page. Sunlight streamed through the branches of our big ash tree onto the book.
Now the swing set is gone, the tree has been cut down, I haven’t read Nancy Drew in years, and Shirley Temples are too sweet for me. But that memory stays with me.
It was the happiest I had ever felt. It was all thanks to my mother.
My mother who bought me the book and who made me the drink. A reward for going out with her.
Now when my mother asks me if I want to go to the store with her and I say no, I see the disappointment on her face.
I ask her why she wants me to go with her so bad, she usually says something like, “I just want to spend some time with my Baby Girl.”
Gut-wrenching, I know. She’s good at the “accidental” guilt trip. It’s one of her superpowers.
Sometimes I forget that my mother is a person. She’s not just this woman who raised me with love and affection. She has fears and dreams. Some of her dreams she’s had to give up to raise her children.
My mother is the most selfless person I know. Sometimes too selfless, and I get annoyed with her for it.
I tell her, “Mom! Just make a decision for yourself, stop worrying about what we want!”
It’s useless telling my mother to only think about herself. It frustrates me so much I feel like pulling my hair out.
When me and my sister are having a conversation about the most mundane thing, my mother perks up and asks, “What are you two talking about?”
The response is usually some version of an eyeroll and, “Nothing important you’re so nosy.”
I know that she just wants to be included, even in our conversations about the weather. I feel a pang of guilt and want to immediately pull her into the fold of our conversation and gossip for hours.
My family eats dinner together at the table every night. Sometimes, when my brother and father have left, us girls stay and chat. We talk about the men in the house. Saying things like “They’ll just never understand.” while shaking our heads.
There’s something about the mother/daughter bond. I’m so thankful that I have that, and I’m aware that not everyone does.
I’m so grateful for my mother and I do a horrible job showing it.
So, Mom, this is for you. I love you, flaws and all. There hasn’t been a day in my life that I haven’t felt your love.
You are the best mother in the world. Never, ever, doubt that.
-Baby Girl
Gabby Gaspard 