Legend has it that on the day my mother delivered me, the doctor nearly lost both of us. The permanent dent in my skull from the forceps and a shoulder blade that is noticeably lower than the other one remind me things got pretty ugly that day for my fifteen-year- old mother with the narrow pelvis. The end of the story is that her parents, not known to be big drinkers, went home that evening and drank quite a few very stiff, adult beverages. They were not celebrating my birth; they were just relieved that both my mother and I had survived it. Thankfully, blessedly, the rest of the babies born into our family arrived with a lot less fanfare. No more dents. No more crooked shoulder blades. This is good because Lord knows we have enough to deal with in this family without everyone else walking around all crooked and dented, too.
In other news, today is Mother’s Day. I got a beautiful bouquet and sweet texts from my two sweet kids. I brought my own mother a bouquet of orange tulips this morning and sat in the sunshine with her. And so, it has been nice day.
Even so, I am thinking of other mothers I know. The ones who might be needing a little mothering themselves today, or this week, or maybe just for the rest of their lives. That’s what women are best at when we are at our best, isn’t it? Mothering each other, I mean. I’m grateful to be a mother myself, but I’m equally grateful for the women who’ve mothered me throughout my life. My mom. My aunt. My grandmother. The mothers of my friends. My own friends, too.
As far as I know, doing so was only life-threatening for one of them.
Happy Mother’s Day.