The Hand That Rocks the Cradle
To the mothers in my life
How do we honor the mothers of the world who are the creators, the birthers, the nurturers of all that we know? How do we hold the hands that rock the cradle of the universe and say thank you? Motherhood is the ultimate act of service, sacrifice of self and outpouring of love that exists in my estimation. I don’t know that there is a way to actually do it justice but I am going to give it a go.
Warning: incoming photo dump and unapologetic sappiness!
Mother’s day always brings a lot of emotion and reflection for me. I birthed four magnificent souls into this world and it still, to this day, feels hard to grok the juxtaposition of pure joy and painful crucible that motherhood is. The combined emotions of grief, joy, gratitude, longing, exhaustion and crushing responsibility make it a complex experience.
Hazy ghosts, the memories linger as evidence that I did indeed survive the long dark years of early motherhood and that I made it out the other side. But the fogginess of it all also creates a sense of distance from it and I often think to myself, did I really do that?
Motherhood began for me with a 10-year long, dark, sleep-deprived tunnel filled with bottles, cooking, laundry, tears, bandaids, tender skin, warm wiggly bodies, a symphony of laughter and deep love for my children. Most of my memories are phantoms. Like looking at something through water, they feel strangely distant and warped. My youngest somehow magically sitting in her high chair having just been fed but not knowing who had fed her. My children lined up in a row on floor mats with a puke buckets next to each one. My oldest son screaming about the monsters in the room each night before bed. My youngest son curled up next to me in bed with his thumb in his mouth and his hands flicking the ends of my hair. My long difficult hours of bed rest after my youngest was born, feeling the pull of responsibility and not being able to do anything about it.
A jumble of hazy ghosts, these memories linger as evidence that I did indeed survive the long dark years of early motherhood and that I made it out the other side. But the fogginess of it all also creates a sense of distance from it and I often think to myself, did I really do that? My kids remember for me though, often taking trips down memory lane when we get together — me on the outside looking in and wondering if I was even there. I want to remember but the reality is memories get very muddy when are living in a constant state of fight or flight and survival. When I see photos of myself, exhausted, glassy-eyed and shut down, it all makes sense and I can give myself grace.
I may not have distinct clear memories but I do have knowing. Knowing of who people are based on the now and what impact they have had on me. So my memorial to motherhood is based on all the ways in which the mothers in my life have given me wisdom just through their being, their self expression and their own path in the world. Sitting with and voicing their impact on me is my way of honoring them and the lives they have lived or are living.
To my mother, Martha, a salt of the earth woman who has a much deeper connection with the earth and soil than even she knows, I bow my humble head and grateful heart. Thank you for braving the aloneness you must have felt when the Air Force shipped my father off to Thailand leaving you with a one year old and the reality of having to find a job long before you were ready. Thank you for the tender hands with which you bathed me, the deep intention and care with which you fed me and the love you poured into the home that you created for me each and every time we moved. I have always felt a connection in our common ground of being a woman, caring for children, the ways of hearth and home, and healing our bodies through nature. Thank you for being my teacher.
To my maternal grandmother, Vesta, who birthed and raised nine children and understood motherhood in ways I will never fathom. Thank you for bringing laughter and joy into my world. For the softness of your body that would engulf me in a hug. For the quick witted nursery rhymes, poems and scriptures that you always had at the ready to communicate love, truth and the realness of life. For the ways in which you modeled self acceptance when you would flap your arms, the layers of fat waggling at me, and say with laughter “these are my bat wings”. For the games you made of the unpleasant things in life when you would give us a penny for every dead fly we brought you in the stifling Iowa summer heat. You were a pinnacle of strength and power, raising children in hard conditions but always able to find the joy in the midst of it all.
To my paternal grandmother, Dorothy, a humble and faithful mother whose light shone brightest in the ways she served others. Thank you for showing up at my bedside as I faced emergency surgery at the age of 10, holding my hands, praying with me, seeing that I was afraid and didn’t understand what was happening. I felt deeply loved in the face of fear. Thank you for all the letters that showed up in my mailbox just when I needed them, your beautiful handwriting letting me know I am not alone in the world. For showing me that taking all the pain and suffering of life and tucking it neatly away in your body is not the answer. Because of your journey, I learned to face my trauma, to deal with it and to not let it fester.
To my four beautiful children, who are warriors and have faced some of the darkest and most difficult things you can imagine. You are the loves of my life. Watching you grow into adults and make your way in the world has been the greatest joy of my life. You made me a mother. Our blood, water and tears will forever be intermingled. Thank you for the soul level lessons you have taught me — how to fight for what I love, that I am much stronger than I imagined, indeed I am wonder woman incarnate, and that patience will always produce goodness. Thank you for choosing me to be your mother and for weathering this storm that has been our life together.
To my oldest child, Kait, for walking your own path with such grit and tenacity and for stepping into the daunting waters of birthing your own child and making me a grandmother. For allowing me to witness that miracle and to be there as their tender sweet soul came into the world. For leaning on me when you truly needed it and letting me support you. For sharing the immense ocean of grief and responsibility with me as your father passed from this world. For allowing me to witness your journey and to know that I am not alone in the weight of motherhood sometimes just feeling too hard and too much. For just being unapologetically you and mothering your child in such a deeply authentic and real way. You are my inspiration.
And to me, for being brave enough to step into the intense crucible of motherhood at the tender age of 22 and for continuing to show up in spite of it all. For doing my best even when my best was not enough but it was all I had. For bringing my all and giving my all to the precious lives I was entrusted with. I am grateful for the life lived thus far and for the continued lessons I learn on a daily basis. I feel proud of myself and of all the mothers I know for the ways in which we handle the immense pain, joy, and responsibility of being the hands that rock the cradle of the world.
Do you have a gratitude you would like to share about the mother figures in your life? If so, leave a comment below, I would love to know more about the hands that rock the cradle in your world.
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