The Evidence of Mothers–a post by our Mom

In a new Mother’s Day tradition, today’s post–like last year’s Mother’s Day post–is written by Momalom’s mom, aka GG or Geege. She’ll no doubt be checking comments, so let her know what you think. And, thanks, Mom, for gracing our space with your wisdom once more.

The Evidence of Mothers

One of my best friends’ 37-year-old son recently made her a grandmother for the first time. When I saw Chris last week, she grabbed me and gave me a shake, demanding to know why I had never told her what being a grandparent is like, how wonderful it is Of course I had. Ad nauseum, I’m afraid. But hearing proud and exuberant tales of someone else’s grandchildren can never prepare you for the bolt of love that pierces you when you hold your own. For the flash of recognition when you see the calm, blue eyes of your husband looking back at you from the face of your firstborn grandson, or your granddaughter’s long, slim fingers that are so like your mother’s.

Chris and I tried to articulate to each other why being a grandmother is so special. The wonder of it. The sweetness. We spoke about holding the warm, damp lump of babyhood in our arms; the milky, baby smell; the skin so soft you almost can’t feel it; the mewing, new baby cries that make your nipples tingle and your breasts feel heavier. And what we finally arrived at is the realization that age does not dim a mother’s urge toward nurturing, that we carry it in our bodies as well as in our minds and hearts. And that these grandchildren so clearly connect us to all that has gone before and is yet to be.

After three years of detailed, challenging, research––sometimes yielding surprising results––the ancestry project I embarked on for my own mother is finally finished, and, with a sigh of relief, I was able to give it to her last month. Our family tree extends back for many, many generations, and its branches are intricate and entwined. I followed them to kings and queens, an Indian princess or two, William the Conqueror and, maybe, Ben Franklin. And I was surprised to find cousins, even siblings, marrying. But I was most intrigued by the mothers. The ones who married at the age of 17 and who had 13 children, dying after delivering the fourteenth. The women who remarried twice, having children by each of their three husbands. And the mothers who sheltered and stood by their children while their husbands were off fighting wars or serving their kings for months or years on end. There’s not much written about these women. Historical documentation deals more with conquerors and kings, not mothers and families. But these mostly faceless, unsung mothers produced the plethora of ancestors from which my strong tree––and undoubtedly the trees of many other families––grows.

My own particular branch of the family tree is well populated. My mother is the matriarch of four generations. Three weeks ago, we celebrated her 85th birthday, and almost everyone was able to attend. It was a joyous occasion, of course. We all know how fortunate we are to have her with us. While the older three generations happily ate and talked and teased each other, the dozen excited children whirled and weaved among us. And then, all four generations––more than 40 of us––squeezed into my living room to watch the family video Sarah put together. Everyone sent her their favorite family photos, and she wove them into a gorgeous tribute, a document of so many lives inextricably tied. To the still photographs spanning nearly a century, she added recorded personal greetings from almost all of us and videos of those few who live too far away to attend. Then, she set it all to the perfect soundtrack of Stevie Wonder, The Beatles and Elton John. As the video played, the room grew warm with all the bodies huddled together and warmer still with obvious emotion. With tears in my eyes, a lump in my throat and my eyes on the screen, I watched the flow of my family from the great-grandmother I never met to the nine grandchildren that fill my heart so fully. Picture after picture of ordinary days adding up to an abundance of love, and the overwhelming evidence of nurturing.

Of the evidence of mothers.

I cannot but believe, inflammatory as it may be, that fathers––while being dedicated, loving, wonderful parents––can ever truly feel either the burden or the intensity that belongs to us. Mothers. The absolute undeniable truths of motherhood that are bred in our bones and that we carry in our hearts and our minds forever. This is what connects us to every other mother that was, is, and will be. These truths are the bedrock on which Momalom is built. They are the reasons Momalom has a place.

So, Happy Mother’s Day all you wonderful Momalom readers from Momalom’s mom and the generations of mothers before me. Continue to share your stories. They resonate for all mothers.

Tagged as: creating memories, extended family, live in the moment, thoughts

Read More in birthday, GG, GG Writes, guest post, motherhood