If all mothers of the world were 100 people
If all mothers of the world were 100 people…
That is a curious subject, isn’t it, but let’s not. Statistics happens when stories have been sliced and shredded three times over and resulting bits marinated in formaldehyde until they lost all original color, and smell, and the ability to raise emotions.
The world around us is full of stories. Most of them are stories of mothers.
Which is why I am dedicating all the anemone of the world to you, mother.
To you, mother, who shares received Mother’s Day gifts on every social media your phone is connected to. You are celebrated so little and these gifts, imperfect and simultaneously perfect, are the only tangible thing you can share. For it’s hard to show on Facebook nights you spend awake next to your feverish child. The many tears you wipe away. Diapers you change. Spoons you lift from the floor. Dinners you prepare. Clothes you wash. Scratches you clean. Holes on knees you darn. Homework you help with. Advice you give. Hours you wait. Kilometers you drive. Hugs and tickles you can’t count.
To you, mother, a successful woman with happy family, career, hobbies and in full health. Everyone says you are living a dream and you know it, but you also feel like most of your days are a blur and you never have enough time for anything. Especially for being a mother.
To you, mother, who started maintaining her shiny social media image and now you live in a schizofrenic frenzy, where your unreal you is making your real you feel like a loser and underachiever.
To you, mother, whose home is not catalogue perfect and life is a string of decisions that leave you doubting yourself because of all the “super mother” glitter in the interspace.
To you, mother, who stayed at home, because your partner is able to bring a bigger piece of bread on the table and you hate that you gave up your dreams and career. For now, I know, but it feels the same nevertheless.
To you, mother, who is lonely with her baby among the walls of your apartment.
To you, mother, who has to defend your parenting choices in front of your friends and family.
To you, mother, who wishes her child was less clingy, slept more, ate better, had better results in school, read more, spent less time on a computer.
To you, mother, who wishes your child was more like yourself.
To you, mother, who wishes your child was less like yourself.
To you, mother, that wanted to have one child and ended up having five.
To you, mother, that wanted five children and ended up having one.
To you, mother, whose relationships never flourished into a family.
To you, mother, who feels like you die a little bit inside every time you see the first drops of your period. Again. And again.
To you, mother, who’s lost your child to addiction, or death, or a difference in believes.
To you, mother, who battles with a disease you haven’t even heard of until doctors said your child has it.
To you, mother, who battles your own disease.
And to you, daughters and sons, who are of old age. Your mother had died so long ago, there might even be nobody left to remember her besides you and so few really listen when you talk about her. But you speak to her silently in your heart and ask for her advice even though your head is more white than grey and you remember her hands, and the way hair fell to her face, when she kissed your forehead good night, and perhaps on some days you remember how she smelled.
To all of you, mothers, are the anemones of the Mother’s Day, for you all are mothers in heart. ♥♥♥