Mother

We spend so much time emulating the Mother Goddess, espousing her wisdom, her serenity, her innate femininity. We see the epitome of her on television, in the tabloids, slapped on billboards as far as the eye can see. Nursing mothers, playing mothers, mothers watching Sprout with their toddlers, mothers dancing to Barney tunes. On Amazon, we read the blurbs of mothers who love "Bear in the Big Blue House" as much as their little ones, who sing the praises of "Baby Einstein," who want to cuddle with soft blankie books. Mothers in magazines play Candyland and ball toss and Dora Bingo and we say to ourselves, "What great mothers! Look at all they give to their children." We smile and nod and thank the divine that our next generation will be sane and caring and considerate. In short, we buy into this notion of mother as giver and care-taker.

But what about the mothers? Taught to put aside their own needs, thoughts, ideas, and (heaven forbid!) wants, what happens to the mothers when the babies grow up, go off to school, no longer spend every waking moment at their sides? What happens to them when their children make new friends, participate in soccer, drama, ballet, or tennis? As they sit on the sidelines, cheering on the accomplishments of their children, beaming with pride at every goal, pirouette, and ace serve, how do they disentangle themselves from the routines and rituals of their children and re-gain their own perspective, their own goals, their own selves? How do they find their own truth?

I suppose, for some mothers, this isn't an issue. They've worked throughout their care-taking days and so are unaffected by the abrupt change in lifestyle. (And, don't kid yourself, it is abrupt.) Part-time or full-time, they've been working toward personal goals and, so, with their child pulling away into his or her own self-contained universe, they've suddenly got the room to pursue the things they may (or may not) have been putting off. Good for them! I say, go for it girl!

But for me, and I suspect lots of other mothers, I feel as though a part of myself has been summerarily ripped off, leaving a raw, gaping wound. And everyday (everyday!) salt is rubbed in until it hurts so much I just want to rip everything else off in an effort to stop the pain. I want to kill, maim, destroy. I am mad. Not peeved. Not aggravated. Not upset and angry. I am stark, raving mad at the entire situation. Not pretty, not pleasant... but there it is. Medical doctors talk about post-partum depression and Brook Shields made it famous but I think post-caretaker depression is as debilitating. (Maybe it's not a clinical depression but it should be!)

Now I understand why women have another baby just as their first child is boarding the bus for school. Now I realize the personal power behind schooling your wee ones in the comfort of your own home. It's the need to continue the mothering process that has been schooled into us, as women, from a very young age. The need to nurture and care and nourish is overwhelming and, now, no longer necessary. Move on, Mama, the kids got their own lives. You need to get one too.

But how does one do that? Get a life. How does one know what to do, where to turn, what hobby or job to pick up when one can't get off the sofa? When a movie with The Rock in it becomes the sole focus of the afternoon? When every resume is met with a deafening silence? You look in the mirror with your baggy, 6-year-old clothes and your unwashed, tangled mop-like hair-do and your dull, unfocused eyes and you ask, "Who are you? Who are you now?!" And there is no answer because you are all alone.