Motherhood places a myriad of demands and emotions blended with falsehoods and truths onto any woman undertaking the role. There is plenty to say about the job but nothing that can be taken as an absolute. Some women take to it naturally, much like Adèle Ratignolle in Kate Chopin’s shocking novel, The Awakening, which explores the absolute imprisonment of her central character, Edna Pontellier. Imprisoned by society’s expectations of mothers and wives, the limiting duties and beliefs of both. Edna chose death instead. Shocking even today as I write those words. But Chopin knew first hand the laborious demands of the job and gave her protagonist an out, a provocative out but the only one that worked for Edna. My own mother had little time to discover how she might want to be as a singular person. Married within two weeks of graduating college and holding her first infant nine months later. Baby after baby after baby occupied her life until her mid-thirties. Despite her boundless energy, her love of people and her natural ability to caretake, this was a arduous routine, and an overwhelming expectation which yoked generations of women, and even her I imagine with six of us making our demands. As women do, she networked, fought to survive, leaned heavily on unmarried sisters or young women willing to do what they must until they entered their own married life. But you’d be fool to think there was choice in their endless mothering. Choice wasn’t in their vocabulary.

What my mother did gain, in the last decade or so of her life, was a sphere of her own, widowed and all her chicks grown. Finally free, she dove into her own aspirations and dreams, and fashioned a life that filled her calendar as she wished, finding joy in giving to those who needed her, and joy in attending to her own self. Today is her birthday, and today I am grateful for the mother I had. She wasn’t perfect, in fact her failures impacted my sense of self greatly, but in the end she stood by me even when only pain dictated my actions. There is no person who should be raised on a shrine, but in our home, we created one for my mother. Her belief in our very best self kept our keel steady. Even though she has been gone for years her laughter still echoes loud enough to bring a smile when all seems lost. Her faith in a better day has fueled me when mine has run dry. Don’t let anyone tell you being a good mother is an easy chore; it’s a lifetime of service for little reward. But she was tireless in that arena.

We, mothers and daughters, are knotted together by blood and distress, but we are also joined by hope and triumph. I am grateful that I am a mother. I am grateful for the grand lady who was mine. Perhaps it is best to enter the role of mother in ignorance. Perhaps. But those who do, need to be ready. And I suppose, we must be ready to catch them when they too fall. Happy birthday, my dear fancy mother, xxoo