Mothers: It’s All Relative
Mother
Noun: A woman in relation to her child or children
Verb: To bring up a child with care and affection: To look after kindly and protectively, sometimes excessively so. To give birth to.
Informal
An extreme example or very large specimen of something.
In May we celebrate Mother’s Day. The word Mother seems to me much more complicated than the above definition that I found in the dictionary. I am a woman in relation to my children and also to my stepchildren. I am a Grandmother in relation to my only grandchild. I’ve brought up children with care and affection. I’ve looked after them kindly and protectively, sometimes excessively so. I’ve given birth to some of them, acquired others through marriage. But there’s more.
I also have a Mother. Two actually. There was the Mother that brought me up with care and affection. She was the one that looked after me kindly and protectively, but not excessively so. She did not give birth to me.
Then there was the one who did give birth to me. I did not know her. She did not bring me up, nor did she look after me kindly. She left me with the nuns at Catholic Charities right after my birth. I spent my life wondering who she was, searching for the details of my adoption at six months and imagining our meeting one day.
My adoption was a story of rejection and abandonment
For me, as for many of the adoptees I’ve met, my adoption was a story of rejection and abandonment. Why was I left? Why didn’t my Mother want to keep me? Why didn’t I ever feel really bonded with the Mother who reared me? Who do I look like? Do I have other siblings? Who is my Father? The unanswerable questions. Why would my own Mother reject me? Abandon me?
I don’t like rejection. I’ve suffered mightily when friends have made plans without me. When lovers have rolled over and gone to sleep before me. When I’ve been passed over for any reason. It’s been easy to trigger deep feelings of worthlessness and not belonging in me. I’ve worked hard to heal these wounds and for the most part, I have. It always takes me by surprise when something small wounds me deeply. It’s eye opening when the present moment triggers the pain of the past.
After many years of searching for my birth Mother, I gave up. My adoptive Mother passed away and I resigned myself to being a Motherless Daughter. I have my own children. I know who I look like now. I turned my attention to being a full presence in the life of those I mother. Even now, I’m writing from one of my daughter’s homes where I’m fully enjoying being a Grandmother.
And yet…in May it’s still hard to look at the Mother’s Day cards in the stores and know there’s no one waiting for me to send one. Sometimes I send one to the Wife of the only Father I’ve ever known. But she is not my Mother. I also send flowers to my Aunt who has looked after me kindly throughout my life. At 93, she is still a good Mother figure to me. But she is not really my Mother.
A few years ago, I sent my saliva to 23 and Me for heredity information. Not knowing these kinds of things is one of the hard things about closed adoptions. They verified that I am, indeed, mostly of Italian descent. They also found some possible genetic matches with some sixth cousins. I asked them to stop sending me emails until they found a sibling or a parent with a genetic match. Knowing I had sixth cousins was just confusing and unhelpful.
A few months ago, they sent me a different email. This time it was from a woman in New York who had matched as a half sibling. She and her sister share half of their DNA with me. We had the same Mother. The Mother who did not look after me kindly. As the story unfolds, it seems that, although she kept my sisters, she did not look after them kindly or protectively. She gave birth but did not bring them up with care or affection.
My narrative turned into a story of grace and redemption
And just like that, my narrative of rejection and abandonment turned into a story of grace and redemption. I was the “lucky one” my sister said. I was the one that got both parts of the definition. It took two women—one to give birth and one to nurture and provide love, but I got both. Lucky, indeed.
As I’ve learned the story of my birth Mother’s life, I have compassion for her and the decisions she made. I don’t blame her. I’m no longer curious and I’m at peace. I have two sisters and I have a new story. That’s good. All good.
I will not be sending any Mother’s Day cards this year. My Mothers have both passed. Instead, I’m going to focus on being the Mother this year—the Mother of all Mothers. (see Informal definition above).
I’m going to thank my children, my stepchildren, my students and my lovely Interns for allowing me to mother them. I’m going to revel in the mothering energy that I’ve received from so many strong and powerful women and even a few men. I’m going to celebrate being Mémé to my precious granddaughter in France. And I’m going to be at peace. Finally.
