Sunday, 15 March 2015

It's not my job, it's who I am

I went to my boy's school assembly on Fri and it was a special service for Mothering Sunday. There were lovely readings by the children and the nursery class sang the song I've been hearing all week. His tuneful solo rendition was mangled by the 35+ voices of under fives who seemed awestruck in front of an audience of parents. At the end all the mums were presented with daffodils by our children. My boy was delighted that my bunch weren't open yet and so was I as I explained, "that's lovely, they will last longer."

The readings were about the 'job of a mum' with the classic about children demanding a drink, a hug, an answer, etc from Mum and asking Dad, 'where's Mum ?" There was recognition that mums do so much for us and that "a mother's love is blind because she loved you before she met you." I can vouch for this. My love for my boy was forged long before I saw his face. Or held him in my arms. It's not just the act of giving birth that made me his mother though. Yes that's a huge thing. Carrying, growing and birthing a child is a huge thing. It's not the only way to be a mum though. I honestly think that for me being a mum is about how I feel. Of course there's the reality of caring for a child, but many people do this who didn't carry the person they love in exactly the same way a parent loves their offspring. 

Origami flower and a lovely breakfast in bed
The idea that being a mum is my job is one that suggests I do it under duress. Believe me there are days when it feels that way, but it's not true. Parenting was in my bones even before I was old enough to have children. I grew up with a motherly attitude and I always felt it was my responsibility to be in charge and take care of others. Not in a resentful way by any means. More in a needing to know that everyone was looked after way. I'm not really comfortable with others doing things for me though. It's partly a control thing - I know how I want things done - and partly an, "I'm not worth it," thing. I will make sure my boys have eaten and will fuss about them being warm enough then go out of the house without a coat and as angry as a bear who hasn't eaten, because... well I haven't eaten. 

This morning my boys brought me breakfast in bed. It was lovely. I didn't complain about it or tut about how I'd have done it differently. I ate it with the cat sitting next to me and the boys went downstairs to leave me in peace. 


I think I could get used to being taken care of - sometimes :)


Cat in a (paper) hat 

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