Those few who really know me well, appreciate that I hold a deep reverence for motherhood. I cannot trace its origin to a single memory or moment in my childhood. It feels older than recollection – something formed in the background of my early years, impressed upon me before I had the language to describe it or the emotional maturity to understand it.
When my wife and I became parents years ago, this reverence for motherhood only deepened. Watching her step into motherhood was like witnessing someone discover a calling they had always been meant to answer. That she is devoted is unquestioned. Her approach to parenting and mothering is focused, engaged, diligent, patient, supportive and loving. Family and friends often remark on it, but to me it feels less like something she performs and more like who she is. We were fortunate – blessed, really – that she was able to spend those early years as a stay-at-home mother.
As a father, I was present, involved, and deeply committed. Yet I could never quite witness the sacredness of the one-on-one exchanges between mother and child. It’s not that I was blind to it; just that it’s nearly impossible to be a “fly on the wall” in your own home. Whenever I entered the room, the dynamic shifted. It became my moments with our child, or our shared moments as three. I clearly saw the results – the impact on the growth and development for both child and mother, but didn’t really see how it was done and what it took to really do it well.
Now, as a grandparent, time has offered me perspective. I can see my wife in this role with the love, tireless devotion and level of caring that seems to just swallow time. I observe the skillful balance of allowing life to be experienced and explored while guarding safety; the patient engagement in all things that interest a young child, transforming ordinary moments into opportunities for learning and delight. She never misses an opportunity to be at a child’s level, fully entering their world without hesitation. Having this insight at this stage gives me a glimpse of what it must have been like 30 some years ago in the raising of our own child.
And then, as thoughts tend to do when given time and space, mine wandered further back. My mother passed at way too early an age. I’m sad that I never got the chance to see her as a grandmother – denied that window to see the kind of mother she must have been to me; to witness in her loving a grandchild something more tangible than just the scattered memories I accumulated as a child all those years ago. And so, the questions are still there. What is it that she did that forged in me this reverence for motherhood? What was so special? What made it so impressionable?
Our child missed out, too, of course. But no one missed out more than my mother. If it were possible to warp time, allowing generations to mingle a bit more than they actually did, I can only imagine the incredible joy our grandchild would give to my mother today, and that makes me smile with tears sensing that joy.
Happy Mothers’ Day.