Down the Rabbit Hole: The mother of all days
By Chegs Chisholm
Traditional celebrations of mothers and motherhood have existed across the globe forever. The modern, westernised version of Mother’s Day however, with Hallmark cards, flowers and breakfast in bed, that’s pretty new.
In the early 1900s (Wikipedia tells me) an American named Anna Jarvis asked for a day to commemorate the efforts of mothers. It took a few years for the patriarchal law makers to wrap their heads around the concept (I like to imagine their own mothers sternly reminding them that they were raised better than to disrespect their mama). Then, in 1914, Woodrow Wilson went ahead and proclaimed the second Sunday in May Mother’s Day.
Thus, this Sunday we behold the day of the Mother, but I get the feeling this Mother’s Day will be different in the time of Covid.
For those of us locked down with our babes, Mother’s Day will be more of the same. We will fawn over the sticky-fingered cards, jam-flavoured kisses, homemade IOUs, under-cooked eggs and if we’re lucky, the giving of the gifts we have not-so-secretly been dropping hints for. Yet we may also look back at the constancy of our relationship with our children over these past few weeks. How, without the blinkers of time-bound duties, we have come to see our role in their lives differently.
For many, this Sunday will be harder. They won’t be able to be with their mothers. There will be no hand-selected card or written love note for their mama to receive and feel blessed. It will mean missing out on a mama hug.
For others, Mother’s Day will be downright difficult as they remember mamas who live on only in their hearts. They’ll send their love notes through the ether, hoping for a recipient on the other side.
And for some, this Mother’s Day will be about holding the hearts of little ones who do not call them mama. Little ones who do not yet fully appreciate the role these women are playing at this difficult time.
Pre-lockdown, I’ll admit it, I gave Mother’s Day a cursory nod. I saw it more as a day for me to have off – no real meaning beyond that. Yet as we pass week 7,456 of lockdown, I have reassessed my priorities; reconsidered what I know now is my ill-appointed opinion about the role or purpose of Mother’s Day. I’ve finally (and quite obviously) remembered that Mother’s Day is also about my mama.
Without the noise of the world buzzing in my ears, it’s become increasingly obvious that despite being a grown-ass independent child with children of my own, I do still depend on my mama. I call her for the most inane things - to ask for recipes, how to sew, which thread to use for what material.
I’ve spent more time talking to my mama (and mother-in-law) over the past weeks than in all the weeks of all the years prior. We’ve moved from cursory texts to all-in video calls, replete with shouting, laughter, changing backgrounds and unicorn face overlays. Perhaps this is because we’ve peeled away the need to be somewhere else, to whip off somewhere, and we have more time to appreciate that we need her in our life more than perhaps we’ve cared to admit in recent years.
I’ve also thought a bit more deeply about the role of the other-mama and how they fare on Mother’s Day. Many of my friends are step-mums and I’ve been fortunate enough to have had a second mama and played the role of second-mama to many a beautiful human. The job description is confidant, to give a hug or a warm meal when needed. It’s a role that’s often overlooked on Mother’s Day, yet I think it’s a very important one. Being always there but never seen as an other-mama is a beautiful and privileged path to be on. Biology doesn’t make mamas. Time and love do.
And of course, I’ve considered my own role as mother to a stinky pre-teen and tangled little Rapunzel. Pre-Covid, I thought my role was as caregiver, saw it as more of a job. I’d pack them off to school, do my paid job then they’d come home, and I’d do my unpaid mama job for 364 days of the year. On the 365th – Mother’s Day, I’d put away my mothering boots and rest.
Yet during lockdown, I’ve realised I probably need them more than they need me. Their goofy games and bad jokes make me laugh and rise above the waterline. Their incredible resilience and patience while they wait for us to finish working, puts ours to shame.
When my children were born, I wrote a manifesto – I wished them a life full of the colours of the rainbow, and I wrote this manifesto using every colour pen I could find. As my children roast marshmallows on a bonfire in fairy costumes six sizes too small just to make me smile, I realise I achieved my wish.
Mother’s Day isn’t about wanting a day off being a mama, it’s about wanting, as my son said, “a day for mama to chillax”. He also said, “drink more wine,” bless him.
So, this Mother’s Day will be a bit different. It will be like the one Anna Jarvis wanted – Mother’s across the western world will be held up for their efforts and we’ll take that praise. The next day will be like any other - the chores back. There will be cuts, bruises and things (hopefully not human) will break. The never-ending guilt of failing, spoiling, not loving enough, loving too much, will rise and fall with the tides.
The chaos, lonely plight, and collective beauty of being a mama will resume. In a year’s time, when we’re at this point again and look back at this Covid period, I hope that we recall how much more time we had to appreciate our role as mama and our own mamas, and that all we had to do to ensure our babies could play the role of mama too one day, was sit inside, turn off our busy lives and ponder our naval.
Happy mama’s day.