How incomparable is the strength of a good mother? Depending on the child, the strength of a good mother can be unnoticed or seen differently due to time and phases of growth.
From a superhero to a super villain, a mother may have found herself viewed as either or both, sometimes, time and time again. At all cost, one must accept in silence due to the inability to prove otherwise as time becomes the sole factor of the revealing truth.
I recall having that one heated argument with my Mama. Being a rebel I wanted to be able to go out and be trusted as I did not smoke, drink, or put anything into my system that I would think harmful. I could not understand why I was to be so limited or face any needed boundaries.
Since I can remember, I was never even allowed out during my birthday and so, by the time adolescent years kicked in, I felt I had earned the trust and gained the maturity to do as my heart pleased.
My very words spoken I still recall today, “When I have children, I am going to let them do whatever they want!”
Mama’s response, without even raising her voice? “You just wait until you are a parent.”
Like a promise kept and then, fulfilled, I have bitten my words as a mother since that day I spoke them.
Not wanting to accept and thus, not truly prepared to see angels turn to adolescent rebels in heart, mind, body, and spirit, going through the inevitable phases of fighting children’s curious becoming can be treacherously painful.
The hugs and kisses, giggles and laughters, all of a sudden become replaced by snarls and quiet uneasiness. You ache to see the changes, confused at first at the sudden turns, but even more, untrained to deal with the challenge once faced. Your own given training: lacking and bleak. You brace, knowing there is no way to prepare for whatever there is ahead.
It’s like a breakup you don’t want to accept, but know is coming so you hold your stance, keeping your heart afloat from drowning.
Papa used to remind me if I were to follow the Ten Commandments all my life, they would be all I need to fulfill God’s will.
While I have always felt good and enough under the eyes of God, why is it that my children, aside from my husband, as my greatest friends and companions, have been given power to make me see of myself as otherwise?
Why, all of a sudden, do my children whom I’ve poured my heart and soul to, have I given the ability to make me feel insufficient in loving and being loved?
That undying love for a child reciprocated by feelings of a love dying, as if the gleaming eyes that used to look up at you all of a sudden no longer even recognizes your love for them.
You try and be unconditional with your love, but the return of the same seems so depleted that consistency to remain loving no matter what, becomes like a water well being dried up, scorched by the sun with no rain in sight to refill the reserves.
Whether conditional or unconditional love given by a parent, are not children to naturally reciprocate the impression that they will never feel to do enough to amount to such love? Do we not trust to understand that parents only try to protect us children while having to accept each of our own journeys into a becoming under set limitations of the fate that embarks the pathway?
No obedient child will ever feel truly good enough for the love of their parents. Yes? They will always strive to be better. Yes? It is our owe to the life we have been given. Is it not?
Although a loving parent will always love you no matter what, in reverse, should not the child strive to be better than what the parent sees? It is the fear of not being good enough that drives the already far more than good enough to be best. Is this not the truth of goodness?
One should know they are indeed loved no matter what has been said. Even with harsh words spoken, still, the child strives to be beyond belief of abilities, exuberant of what more they can become before the eyes of a parent.
How many of us, however, do not grasp that understanding at our earliest years of having the opportunity to strive for such betterment? It is as if timing is just all wrong, only realizing what parents’ intents were much later in life, once we become parents ourselves.
Could this mindset be the very breakage of bond between a parent and child? Could we perhaps, as children, put the weight on a parent that parents are not good at completely and rightfully knowing how to love? Or, could it be that no matter what we do for our children, no matter how great we truly are, still, we give them control to believe that whatever we have done as parents, we are neither good or enough?
A former student of mine came back to visit me a few years back. We sat and talked in my classroom, quickly reminiscing over the two memorable years we shared along with all her classmates. And then, the discussion of her mother passing was brought to topic.
As she shared with me how the loss of her mother had all transpired, from being protectively not being told at first while she was in college to the time where upon her return, family and friends gathered to support her upon the news, the loss was sudden.
I sat there listening, thinking back to one of the last conversations I had with her mother. It was the time her mother had volunteered to chaperone her group on a field trip. Upon all settling in and the bus beginning to return back to school, her mother expressed reluctance to have been the last group to board. I recalled just giving her mother words of comfort, telling her all was fine, making sure to laughingly smile as a means to reinforce my words.
I’ll never forget the mother’s face looking at me as if she had just failed an incredible life-fighting test as she said something in the lines of, “She is disappointed in me.” She was referring to her daughter.
I recall telling her that was definitely not the case and how lucky her daughter was to have her with us on the trip. My student’s mother just said nothing, looking so defeated. I sat in silence with her. Somehow, I deeply understood the lack of words spoken.
As I listened to my student recalling the events of her mother’s last days, I vowed to myself never to share with her what her mother had said to me on that bus. I just smiled and told my student the last time I ran into her mom was while seeing her wear a colorful tutu over leggings, looking as vibrant and cheerful as she always was, talking to me with such great spirit.
That is what I want to remember about her mother. That is what I want to have my student remember of her mother- colorful, vibrant, cheerful, and with a great spirit.
Being a devoted mother for almost three decades now, I believe one of our silent secrets as a mother is that we just want our children to be void of disappointments. In exchange for such prayers as they face challenges, we place those disappointments on us while they are children, hiding our looks of shame.
I hope to have hid that look when my oldest said nothing to me when I excitedly saw him, walking in with his classmates, as I was volunteering at his school one morning. I wanted to call out his name, but felt because he did not acknowledge me, that I would just embarrass him.
I hope to have hid that look when my oldest daughter lost to my own student for candidacy at school, not knowing what words of magic to say or do even though I truly knew she was the worthy winner.
I hope to have hid that look when my youngest daughter took second during a singing competition, understanding why she couldn’t look me in the eyes because perhaps I had not done my part to prepare myself for anything but victory.
I will most likely be hiding that look again, over and over, to many times in silence, with no words to express yet another defeated feeling of having failed to be the superhero my children have always made me feel when they were but such young children.
The smiley faces on their lunch bags or notes will be as if never drawn or written. The hugs and kisses will be as if never given. The words of praises or encouragements will be as if never spoken.
Your love for your child will never fully be grasped for all children will begin to recollect are those times you seemingly failed them for some time until they become parents themselves.
My mama and I never saw eye to eye. I love her dearly and to no fault of her efforts to try and be a good mom, my love language was just different. And so, my thoughts in filling my own children with what I felt I had been missing in my heart was what I deemed to be enough. Come to discover now, each child’s language of love is different.
You will never be enough to fill all.
I know now, my own mother exhibited strength and talent different from my own.
My Mama is a remarkable storyteller. To this day I will and still believe in mermaids due to her vividly clear depictions of stories about her father’s recollections of seeing and swimming with one.
My Mama stands for her beliefs. This is the mother whom I saw put up decorations and Christmas lights even when Papa had religious reproofs for such adornments. She loved how the shimmering lights glimmered from afar.
My Mama knows how to take on risky adventures. She held my hand that day we crossed together a busy highway just to take a shortcut to the other side while on foot to catch a bus.
My Mama exhibits compensatory talents. This is the mother who admits to not have her math down (she didn’t have to; I’ve endured power shut-offs due to her inability to balance a check book and pay on time), but has flawlessly crocheted me dresses by hand.
My Mama is intelligible. She not only completed all our paperwork for us to get to America, but can write and photographically recite literature and poetry.
My Mama brings laughter to a room. This is the mother who could make Papa laugh to joyful tears amongst a roomful of others holding onto their bellies in shared jubilance.
Mama’s sincerest voice to me as I had become a mother will stand to strengthen me for life: “I hope to be strong like you one day.”
At what point did she see herself not strong? Was it when her father left her and her five other siblings when she was at the age of fourteen? Was it when she shared with me to have lost her first child following years of attempts to finally have another? Was it when after ears of trying, we were denied entry to America due to her flaws in the paperwork only to start again?
Was it when she lost my youngest sister after having carried her inside full term only to lose her three days after birth, holding her in her arms, only to place her in a casket to be buried several days later?
Was it when she lost our dearly beloved brother, John, who just merely hit adult age and then, to have that phone call to be told he was fighting for his life in the ICU after a car accident?
Was it when she found herself struggling with Papa here in America, not knowing how to rise after a fall and then, another fall?
Mama, did you not share with me stories where you were the one who would get locked up in a room by your grandmother because you were the one who dared misbehave or break rules? Were you not the one who told me how much you loved the water, not just swimming in the riverbank, but challenging others to dive down from a bridge and swim across treacherous currents, having discovered the waters were much calmer deep below? Were you not the one who eloped with Papa when forbidden to marry him?
I may have ran across waters to see if I could walk over them, but I doubt to ever think to swim across a river, deep down below its heavy currents. My ability and desire to climb just to hang decorations or lights are founded by your love for them. My gathered strength to have a child and marry my husband came from your stories that you fought for love, too. My rebel self that shall only be tamed with age comes from your spirit to fight with those who gave you rules to follow.
Will I ever have the patience and skill to crochet like you? I hope one day I will. Until then, you hold that gift and talent. Will I ever hope to ever go through your losses just to prove my strength? No, Mama. You have held your strength on your own to hold without challenge.
If you see me to have greater strength, that should only be because you gave me yours.
Thank you.
