No, I'm not talking about stretch marks, saggy boobs, that
final 10 pounds you can't seem to lose, or widened hips.
Even children of the healthiest and happiest of homes have
'mother figures' they've picked up along the road of life, and there's
absolutely nothing wrong with it. In fact, I think it's natural (and even
necessary).
In my case, I'm particularly talking about the women who have
fulfilled mothering duties, or set motherly examples, where my mother sometimes
fell short. The women who saw voids in my raising and development and nuzzled
in to fill the gaps. The women who picked up the pieces that had been chipped
off, dropped, or hid in the shadows. They returned them, brought them to light,
or put me back together. I'm talking about the ladies who've had an over-abundance
of love and affection in them, so they've generously shared their reserves with
me. The most incredible part? They did all of the above without ever asking
anything of me in return. Be still my grateful heart.
I've talked in circles about my Mom's mothering. Despite any
mixed messages, she did an incredible
job. She set a wonderful example by being someone who worked tenaciously, had a
remarkable zest for the beautiful (albeit simple) things in life, nurtured her
creativity and passions (as best and as often as she could), and she showed me
that a woman shouldn't 'need' a man. Those valuable lessons on their own were
plenty. Beyond that, she didn't take guff from anyone (this part I'm still figuring out).
Still, I am a firm believer in a First Nations approach to
raising children; the village does it. Yes, a mother carries the bulk of the important
(and more tiresome) responsibilities. But, why be over-proud and take on and
guard the privilege, and not let other good intentioned people help along the
way? I don't know what I'd do without the many varied and unique influences
I've had in my life. Some of these women have been there since the very
beginning. Some I've worked with. Some have children who I call(ed) friends (or
have sons I've dated). Some are family. Some flitted in and then out, but left
a deep and lasting impression. Some may not even know the weight of my
appreciation for their influence.
You see, no one is perfect. Being a mother is hard. Being a
teacher is also hard, and my Mom was both. To top it, as mentioned multiple
times, my Mom did both alone. That made both that much harder. I have thought
on multiple occasions that she didn't get a fair chance to really relish being
a mother. She didn't get to savour the small things and enjoy it for all its
gifts. Sometimes aspects of 'being a mother' had to get put on the back-burner,
given her many responsibilities. I wonder how much guilt and resentment this
caused. I didn't understand then that this was uncommon. I always thought that
being a mother meant work, work and more work, in and outside of the home. For
the longest time, given my isolation, I assumed all mothers were just like
mine.
That's where the mother figures come in. Thank goodness gracious
for them, too. I know my Mom - consciously or subconsciously - openly or
inadvertently - thanked them as well.
To start, I've had incredible grandmothers. I am blessed to
still have my Mom's Mom in my life. Gramma Joan is a sweet, soft spoken and
sometimes anxious woman who has cherished me since I was that mere blip on the
radar. I was her only granddaughter out of five grandchildren, and I also had
the advantage of growing up a short twenty minutes away from their home. I saw
her just about every week (I still do), and remember many special outings that
my Mom, Gramma and I shared. Unfortunately, she and my Mom didn't always get
along. There were times where I didn't get to see her for long stretches of time
due to conflicts that awaited ironing out. But, I never once doubted her love
for me (even if my Mom told me in moments of anger that "Gramma knew what
I was really all about"). Those
were private moments when I snickered on the inside. Yes, Gramma did know what I was all about, in a good way.
(Gramma Joan writing my name in the sand at the cottage)
Similar to how my mother figures filled the gaps in my life, I sometimes wonder if I did the
same for Gramma Joan. In short, my Mom was very much like her father, and put
simply, I am not.
Gramma Joan is now eighty-eight years old. The change she's
seen in her lifetime is staggering and daunting and every chance I get to talk
to her about her childhood and life from there on I grasp and soak up like a
sponge. She sometimes trips up over names and 'who was married to who' (and
then claims she's losing it) but I feel I learn so much every time I spend
time with her. She was raised in - and married into - a life where women were expected
to be in the kitchen, raise children, and keep house. They were also meant to
make it look easy and not complain. I love my Grampa, but he reminds her of
this regularly. I actually detest how women of her generation were typically
narrowed down to that, as if their dreams, hobbies and gifts didn't matter. My
grandparents have been married for almost sixty-eight years. That's a long time
to be reminded by your life partner of your so-called 'limitations'. I, for
one, wouldn't stand for it for a second (thankyouverymuch, Mom).
On the contrary, my Gramma is a creative, artistic, stylish
woman. She is a perfect blend of Katharine and Audrey, even at eighty-eight.
She has a great sense of humour, has a wonderful laugh, and talks openly to me
about 'what she would have done' (if she'd only been able to). A lot of our
passions are similar in that she loves artistic endeavours. She would have
loved to have had a store that sold antiques, art and home décor, or she would
have wanted to be an interior decorator. She always dreamt of turning an old
stone based barn into an open concept home, and always loved horses and wished
she'd had a hobby farm. She has loved me openly and unconditionally, and has
taught me - indirectly and unknowingly - to protect and nurture my creativity.
For me, yes, but also to honour her.
Grandma Chuck was also an incredible woman. She was one of
twelve children who were all raised simply, healthily and happily on a farm. She
went on to marry my Grandpa and raise four perfectly behaved boys - especially
the one I call 'Dad' (ha!). I was her only grandchild for ten years before my
half-brother came to be, and the first baby girl in her immediate family that
she had direct spoiling rights to. I was blessed to have her in my life until I
was eighteen, and as such, I know a great deal about her (and have a lot of
cherished memories I'll never forget). But, there is so much I would have asked
- or pried out of her - if she'd only lived longer and I'd had the chance.
I will always remember my experiences on their farm. Like
Gramma Joan, Grandma Chuck was always perfectly polished and put together. She
wouldn't come downstairs in the morning without her 'face on' and a splash of
her signature perfume. When she passed away I requested her light up vanity
mirror and what was left of her last bottle of Giorgio. Just the smell of that fills me with comfort and warmth
like she's somehow giving me a tight squeeze around the shoulders - that
threatened to crush me with love - like she always did. I used to sneak up to
their upstairs bathroom, sit at her vanity, and pretend I was her. I had that
mirror for years, and still won't leave my house without my mascara and a
splash of my perfume. Hey, I come by it honestly!
I'd get up at sunrise with my Grandpa and we'd go out to
feed the cows. By the time we returned, she'd be up and ready. We'd have our instant
porridge, half a cantaloupe (fresh picked, scooped out with a spoon) or
strawberries and cream in the gazebo. We'd be surrounded by her beautiful
gardens; the colours blinding, the intoxicating smells filling our nostrils,
the sound of bumble bees a comforting hum. Every day would promise a new
adventure; we'd explore the gardens - picking the fruits and vegetables that were
ready to be enjoyed each day, collect wild grape vines to make crowns out of
(while riding sky-high in the bucket of Grandpa's big tractor, nonetheless), go shopping for new
clothes, hang the laundry on the line, or simply watch her 'soaps' in the
afternoon and the rodeo after supper. She would also include me in her baking,
cooking and embroidery as much as possible, and yet I still yearn to know how
to make her famous pies and rum balls, or how to knit. I can learn these skills
elsewhere, yes, but it will never be the same as if she'd taught me. These are the
lessons we learn in hindsight.
(Don't let my sourpuss face fool you, it was just a sour plum. Fresh picked and home grown, of course!)
Unlike Gramma Joan, Grandma Chuck had her own wool shop for
a time. This offered her independence, a broad social life, and confidence.
Grandpa Jack never seemed to limit or belittle her. Quite the contrary,
actually; he seemed to worship and appreciate her in his own quiet way, and
what a beautiful thing that was to witness. She was also tremendously gifted in
many ways, and seemed to raise four boys and
nurture her talents and passions with an ease and freedom I always admired and appreciated.
To this day, when I cross paths with old friends or family
members of my Gramma or Grandma, I hear nothing but indirect compliments about
how much they love(d) me, are/were proud of me, or how much they appreciate(d)
me. I always knew it, even if the words weren't spoken, but it's certainly nice
to hear. Amongst my turbulent childhood years, especially, their love for me
healed and lifted me up in more ways than I can express. My Gramma was never
fully able to 'connect' with my Mom, and my Grandma never had a daughter. Both of them knew my
growing up wasn't easy, so they both stepped in and did what they could to fill
the gaps. I attribute a lot of who I am to the quality time spent with both
women, and often feel sad (and admittedly angry) that my Mom wasn't afforded the chance to do the same with my future
children. I think that some Grandmas appreciate and delight in their new roles
the way they do because it gives them a second chance (to do it all again, or,
to do it all differently the second time).
Beyond that, I've multiple other women who have also helped
to build my sense of self over the years. When you've been made well-aware that
you were unwanted, have been called a 'mistake' (or even sometimes told you've
ruined your own Mother's life) every other mother figure who came along and made
you feel 'good enough' healed and helped more than I'll ever be able to express
gratitude for.
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It is my belief that various expressions of love are key in
the development of a child's sense of self. A mother's tenderness, patience, support,
forgiveness, understanding, appreciation, faith, and words of praise are key in
the building of confident, committed, well rounded and well thought-of adults.
As mentioned, I lacked a lot of the aforementioned; partly because my Mom
didn't learn to love that way from her own examples, her genetics weren't wired
that way, and also because of the other stresses in her life. I get it. I completely forgive her for it. I loved
- and continue to love her - deeply. I love her in a 'it still takes my breath
away' kind of way. She loved me beautifully, the best way she knew how.
Still, a part of me - even
if it's a small part - will likely always be an exposed wound that will
never fully heal, as a key part of my growth and development didn't exist in my
most formative years. In the last days of my Mom's life (and also on other days
throughout our years together, too) she did
praise and love me. She did express
her appreciations and pride. In the end she asked for forgiveness and expressed
gratitude for how I turned out. I must give credit where credit is due. But, throughout
the years those moments, 'good days' and kind words often felt conditional.
I always wondered when the peace was going to be shattered.
I almost always thought I was being buttered up for something worse that would
inevitably come, or desperately hoped with every cell in my body that those moments were
the point in history where everything would change for the better, and for
good. The good that was given to me or done for me always seemed to be hung
above my head, and the joy I was given always threatened to become just that; a
threat. I was always caught in a cycle of breaking down and building up (or buying
love).
"Sure, you can do that (or have this) but only if you
[insert impracticable or unattainable expectation here]"
"Yes, 87% is great, but where did the other 13%
go?"
"You'd be pretty, if it wasn't for your nose, zits,
personality, etc."
Who pumps up a tire, with the sole intent of running over
broken glass? Who buys a gift with strings attached, so it can be pulled away
in the instant things aren't going the gift giver's way? Who builds a 'perfect' statue
with cracks in the foundation, just so it can be toppled and broken easily in
moments of frustration and anger?
Unfortunately my Mom did. Even worse, she learned to be that
way quite honestly.
Let me re-iterate my love for her, and I hope as you read
you don't doubt it. As mentioned, she did a whole heck of a lot right. I'm
proud of who I am (even that open wound I may never be able to eradicate
entirely). Because of her influence, I am who I am.
Yes, I could be more confident. Yes, I could take more
risks. Yes, I could be less sensitive. Yes, I could let more go and not let so
much consume me. Yes, I could be less of a perfectionist and stop trying so
hard. But then I wouldn't be 'me'. Even in my darkest moments I know the world
needs 'me' as much as it needs anyone else, flaws, wounds, weaknesses and all.
Due to my upbringing I am
a perfectionist, yes. I'm admittedly A-Type and passive aggressive. I am also a
control freak and desperately hope that every person in my path will accept and
like me. I give a lot of myself hoping for love and appreciation in return, and
I rarely take risks or challenge myself for fear of embarrassment, error, or
pain. New intriguing tasks and adventures sometimes resemble tall and teetering
ladders. I don't want to take the cautious baby steps required to work my way
to the top, I just want to jump up there in one fell swoop and land perfectly,
with an audience that will applause and shower me with gold stars and high
fives. That's unrealistic, and usually isn't possible, so I sometimes don't
even try.
I remember vividly one time that my Mom and I had family
over for a special occasion. At one point her cousin and I ended up alone in
the kitchen and she actually had the audacity to say, "Can't you wait to
be free from here, so you can stop being so perfect all the time?"
I said pardon? Me?
Perfect!? You must be mistaken. I
just can't seem to do anything quite right or good enough. Oh, you're talking
about me trying my heart out? That? No, that will never go away, no matter who,
where or what I'm free from. That - I'm thinking - I'll be stuck with for life.
This isn't an act, you know. This is the essence of who I am. If you don't like
it, I'm sorry, but I won't be changing anytime soon. Even if I wanted to, and
tried, I just don't think I can shake that off.
This is the fun part; I'd rather care this much and try this hard
than not at all, or not enough. I've seen a lot
of alternatives I'd be a lot less proud to be. How do you like them apples?
I'm in no way saying Mom's should dote on and smother their
children with nothing but love and adoration. My future children will not think
the sun shines out of their butts or that the world revolves around them. I've
said before that there's no such thing as a perfect mother. I've also given a
numbered list of things I think good parents do. Consequences, discipline and
expressions of disappointment are equally as important in the development of a
child's sense of self as the lovey dovey stuff. It just needs to be at the
right times, in the right contexts, for the right reasons. I've felt guilt for
things I've done wrong in the past that I know I deserved. Somehow, even as a
small child, I always knew the difference. Real guilt sits low and heavy in my
stomach, and yet holds a vice grip up high in my throat. It leaves me on the
verge of tears and engulfs me in feelings I would attribute to panic. My brain
races a mile a minute trying to figure out a way to make things better. Guilt I
don't deserve? Not so much.
Although a mother's love and acceptance is key, and can't be
compared to anything else, all forms of appreciation and support from other
mother figures throughout my life softened my edges, helped me to make good
decisions (for fear of letting anyone down), and quite honestly (and I mean
this) made life worth living. If it
hadn't been for the love and affection I received from so many other areas of
my life, I don't know who or what I'd be, or if I'd even be here at all. Deep,
dark and scary, yes - but oh-so-very true.
Here are some examples:
I have an aunt who I've always felt secure being my most
honest self around. She's been a safe place for me to talk openly about my
past, and loves and accepts me for who I am. Even when I'm surrounded by the
tornado I've called 'life', she's always opened her doors and her heart to me.
Wanting her pride and approval has helped me navigate some difficult decisions.
She's hard working and is raising two responsible, kind, and socially conscious
children who I adore. She's said on more than one occasion that I'm 'a breath
of fresh air'. A compliment doesn't get much better than that.
I had a babysitter at a young age who took me under her
wing. I was the flower girl in her wedding (a grand and honourable role at a
very turbulent and 'tug of war' time in my life). Both of my parents were in
attendance, as the pictures prove, at a time when it was likely hard for them
to be in each others' company. She even asked for my input (when I was quite
young) when they were naming their first born son. If memory serves me well,
she even took my advice (although maybe she already had the name in mind). She has
followed my blogs, and still expresses her support and love via Facebook, even
though we haven't seen each other in person for years and years. The honourable
examples she sets as a wife, mother and teacher haven't gone unnoticed. I look
up to and admire her in many ways.
My 'other mother' through the years also started out as a
childhood babysitter. We could see into each others' backyards when my Mom and
I first moved to our little town, and she set her sights on me immediately. She
had her children in 1983, 1985 and 1986. Being a 1984, I was the 'other baby'
that seemed to fill the gap, and she treated me as her own. Now I proudly call
her 'Mom', and her children are more like siblings than friends. Thankfully
they always lived around the corner (even after they moved) and their home
became my haven. When I was given the boot, or had to get away, that was where
my heart wanted to be. There I would be held, appreciated and complimented.
There the simple things I did (and do) were made to seem so big, thoughtful and
special. I was (and am) more than good enough when in her home. She saw me at
my lowest, witnessed and heard about horrific experiences, and still loved me
through and through. She also (remarkably) understood and forgave my Mom
throughout the years, and never made me feel that her tank of love for me could
ever possibly run out. She made me feel like a blessing, and I shudder to think
of who I would be without her influence in my life.
(My 'Other Mother' with her girls)
My grade one and two teacher was a saviour, too. She may as
well have been an angel sent from Heaven just for me. Those years were my 'tummy
ache' and sleepless night years. School was a safe place because of the
environment of nurturing and learning she created. I remember thinking no one
else in the world could ever be so beautiful (she still is). The sun shone out
of her, if you'd asked me. I don't even remember what she taught me or how,
specifically, I just know how she made me feel.
For many years I thought I'd lost her (she had switched schools after being my
teacher) and I feared I'd never be able to thank her for taking the extra time,
beyond the teaching, for caring for me. Luckily life has a way of coming full
circle, and we re-connected one day at my old school (where she was teaching once
again). She helped me start out on the right foot, and gave so much more than
was expected (as teachers often do).
My husbands mother is a remarkable woman. She balances so much and does so with grace, endless
generosity and an ease I have a hard time understanding. She's a wife, mother
to four, grandmother to two, full-time worker and owner of two properties (this
is actually the tip of the iceberg, I'm sure). She seems to always be smiling
and laughing, is the life of the party in a completely responsible and
respectful way, takes criticism with a grain of salt, is flexible, forgiving,
and is full of love. I am so blessed to be able to share her with my husband
(and the other lucky people in her life), especially considering I no longer
have my own Mom. It's actually hard for me to put into words the respect and
love I have for her. I am doubly blessed because all of her incredible
qualities are what I appreciate and love about my husband, too. His respect,
appreciation and love for her fills my heart. She is not only a 'Mum', but also
a dear friend.
An old friend of mine (who I once dated) has 'one of those
Moms', too. Like my mother in law, she has embraced me through the years as if
I'm one of her own, and the relationships she shares with her children
(particularly her beautiful daughter) are enviable. Just witnessing what they
share is teaching me a great deal about my future as a mother, and is healing
for me, too. She has given her children just the right amount of love, support
and respect to build their confidence, mixed with a perfect balance of freedom
to take risks. The way she has learned from her past, and the way she treats
others, has set an incredible example. Although I've naturally lost touch with
her son, I am so grateful to still have her in my life.
Another mother figure is a friend I met while working my
summer job through university. She is such a generous, adventurous and kind
person. She lives simply in order to help others around the world, and is
always conscious of how her actions affect others (and makes a specific point
of making sure the legacy she leaves is a good one). She grabs life by the
horns, seizes the day, and values and nurtures her relationships with her
children, friends, and other family members. She is a gift to anyone who has
her in their life, and she changed my life the day she said she would be proud
to be my mother.
Some other mother figures are women who aren't actually even
old enough to be my mothers, but the way they treat others (colleagues,
friends, their own children, and the children they help as Educational
Assistants) warms my heart and makes working with them a tremendous pleasure. I
see what they invest in the people they care about, the way they live their
lives, and how much they give of themselves without getting overt recognition,
appreciation (or money) in return. They do what they do because they are good
to the core, I am better for having met them, and am blessed to now call them
friends. They are the best kinds of mothers, and somehow still have enough love
for the children they support (including me) to go around, and around, and around...
As a teacher, and in general, I tend to look for a soft, supportive and safe place to land (even subconsciously). In each place of work where I've spent any
length of time teaching I've gravitated to someone who's been a true friend and mentor who I in turn respect and admire. These women have a knack for teaching
and have an affect on their students that is reminiscent of how my Mom was in
the classroom. There, my Mom shone; she gave every bit of herself to her
students. She grabbed attention, gave affection (especially to children lacking
it elsewhere), inspired, intrigued, and taught. She taught so much more than
the curriculum; she taught life skills and respect. The teachers I've worked
with that I've considered 'mother figures' have not only taken me under their
wing and appreciated me for who I am, but their gifts remind me of my Mom's (when
she was at her absolute best) and that is such a treasure.
Two other honorary Mama's I've met through my husband. In
short, good women can be hard to find. The kind that accept you with open
hearts without judgement? The kind who don't have time for drama or pettiness?
The kind who make you feel at ease being your most natural self, no games,
expectations or fear needed? The kind who you witness loving their children
like there's no tomorrow, because you never know what it may bring? These women
have overcome great difficulty, continue to face adversity with optimism,
appreciation, and a strength I admire. They set an example every day for the
kind of wife and mother I hope to be. They treat me like one of their own, and
as if they've known and loved me forever.
Sometimes mother figures 'mother' in a quiet, seemingly
distant, non-effusive and unassuming way. Sometimes they don't realize how
their simple but consistent signs of support leave a lasting
impression. My neighbours, and a couple of other women in our town, are women
I've had in my life since I moved into my home at two years old. They have
supported me from across the ditch, across the road, around the corner, or over
the bridge for practically my whole life. Apart from the river in the backyard,
having them (and their incredibly supportive, helpful and generous husbands)
has kept us in our little town. Great neighbours are hard to find. We consider
these neighbours family. They've witnessed (or heard) some difficult times in
my life, and yet remain steadfast in their support. We may not spend a great
deal of time together, but they set an example I admire (and I know would be
there in a heartbeat if I needed them). I hope they know I'd do the same for
them.
Yes, I have a lot of 'mother figures'. Maybe a number of the
women I've mentioned have been saddled with me and find me a nuisance or hindrance,
they just don't let on. There are plenty more that I haven't mentioned
specifically (I'm sorry in advance) who have set an example, provided a safe
place, or have loved and/or looked after me in a time of need. Some have merely
loved their own children a way I admire,
the way I often wished my Mom could have loved me. For setting that example, I
am thankful. That perfectionist side of me didn't often let on when I was
struggling. Simple acts of kindness, or words of support and affection, frequently
made the world of difference. They weren't taken for granted and they will
never be forgotten. So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.
I've also had a number of men in my life I've considered
'father figures' through the years. They helped set an example of the kind of
man I hoped to marry, and showed me (even if from a distance) what it means to
work hard, support a wife and children, and most importantly, still be
sensitive and have a heart. They treated me like one of their own, and that in
itself is more than I ever could have asked for.
Lastly, I have friends in my life I don't even consider
'just friends' anymore. Their support, and the safety in 'being me' I feel when
I'm with them, has made them family. They have become the 'sisters' I never had.
We respect each other, accept each other, and are connected at the soul. Thank
you, ladies, for being a part of my beautiful army of love.
In the end, as long as you get the love, support and
affection from somewhere (that we as
humans crave) you're blessed. As you can see, I've been blessed tenfold, and often
wonder how I got so lucky. By mentioning in such detail some of the mother
figures I've appreciated and learned from over the years I in no way mean to
take from the job my Mom did. She did remarkably well, and I'm sure she was
equally as grateful that I had love and support in other areas of my life to
pick up where she left off, or help where she simply couldn't. I'm not
slandering her, or belittling her, I'm just giving credit where it's deserved.
This is just proof that every good deed, kind word, and
expression of affection and love you share has the power to make a vast
difference. It may help and heal in a moment, a day, or for a lifetime. Every
person who has crossed my path who has in any way shown me I have worth, has
changed me for the better, forever.
I was raised just how I was supposed to be; by a village -
my army of love.
(ain't that the truth!)
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