| Sunny Side Up May 7, 2003 � 2003, Kathleen Gibson Don�t stop our mother-stories Put a group of mothers together at the doctor�s office, the hockey rink, the coffee machine, and watch what happens. Give us enough time, and sooner or later we�ll be talking about the kids. Add a fresh baby to the mix, or one on the way, then sit back and listen. You�ll hear a thousand memories. First out are the best, the funniest, the most likely to impress. Watch us trip over our tongues in our eagerness. Hear us interrupt each other. See us listen, tapping our fingers, impatient for our turn. It�s mother-talk at its best. Every one of us had the worst pregnancy ever. The longest labor. The hardest delivery. We each had the most beautiful, smartest newborn. And don�t be surprised if we say he smiled and thanked the doctor for delivering him. We�re off, and don�t try to stop us. This is mother-business we�re on today. Comparing and exaggerating the memorable and mundane. From our labors to the day the last chick left the nest, we mothers insist on sharing the memories of our children. Like I said, please don�t stop us. Doing this brings incomparable joy. Now break that group of mothers into pairs of two, circles of three. Wait a while and something else happens. Softly, slowly, stiffly other memories seep through the cracks. The dark side of mothering; stories of mother-pain; days when God stayed silent. Come closer. Even closer. Our voices are low. Our words include �miscarriage,� �abortion,� �crib death.� Perhaps �teenage pregnancy.� Maybe �rape.� Mother-pain sounds like this: �I wish I�d held her before they took her away.� �He died at six.� �She ran away, never came home again.� �I could have prayed more, loved better.� This is mother-talk at its deepest. Pain. Grief. Guilt. Anger. But watch us brace our shoulders, lift our heads. Mothers carry on. Motherhood and womanhood are conjoined twins. Even those women who could not be mothers, or chose not to be mothers; even the youngest girl is never far from motherhood because we all had mothers. Eavesdrop a while longer and you�ll catch the shift into the �My mother �,� stories. Mother-stories toy with your emotions. They may make you sorry, mad, glad, and crazy. But without exception, stories about our mothering and our mothers are part of the stuff that shapes us, makes us into the women we are, the people we always will be. My most memorable Mother�s Day was the year my daughter and a friend conspired to hijack their mothers. They made a picnic lunch, coerced us onto our bikes, and led us to the shores of a nearby lake. Then they asked for our mother-stories. As many as we could remember, for as long as we cared to talk. We spun stories for our daughters, Debbie and I, until the breeze ran cold off the lake. They didn�t even try to stop us. And God, who made mothers, eavesdropped too. You can respond to this column at [email protected] |