Lindsay Woods: Having children does not a mother necessarily make

As Mother’s Day approaches, it has given me cause to reflect on how I feel being a mother in today’s world, writes Lindsay Woods.

Truth? I’m exhausted. I also worry. All of the time. I’m tired from worrying. I’m pretty sure that someone told me that after the sleepless nights of the infant years it would indeed get easier; this whole parenting lark.

What they didn’t tell me was that even though my children would indeed learn to slumber for a consecutive number of hours, the pay-off was that I would become afflicted with a sudden bout of parental insomnia. I tossed and turned, convincing myself that surely they required an extra blanket to keep the chill at bay? In the middle of summer. If I had paid any heed to the cacophony of snores escaping from beneath the doors of their bedrooms, I may have been able to put those very lunacies to the back of my mind. But as a parent, it is my prerogative to worry. Irrationally.

I am conscious that the world my children are growing up in is a volatile one. I struggle with instilling in them a need to retain that sense of softness and kindness but also knowing their worth and being confident in their ability to use their voices. They will make poor decisions. They will stumble. Yet, I have to hope they will find their way and help those who are in need of it.

There is no perfect mother. Yet it did not take me becoming a mother to come to that conclusion. Because, prior to having children, I was not a perfect human being. Nor will I ever be. I don’t advocate bemoaning my shortcomings 24/7 (although, I’m not adverse to a Whingy Wednesday), yet neither do I perpetuate a stereotype of the crafting/baking/all-round domestic goddess. Some days, my children eat broccoli, other days chicken nuggets. Glitter is banned yet, occasionally, I may concede to a bit of cutting and pasting.

I also believe that each woman is a mother and that physically having children does not a mother necessarily make. Women are Mothers of Invention, Mothers of Change, Mothers of Revolution.

I have learned that no matter how hard you protest that you will never begin to sound like your own mother, it is, in fact… inevitable. Never will you hear her voice more clearly exit from your own mouth than at the butchers.

Our local butcher was a tall, thin and quiet man. There was sawdust on the floor of his establishment and his ‘counter’ consisted of one long, expanse of beautiful and undulating wood. A metal construction affixed to the end of the counter housed three, large rolls of brown paper and directly underneath: spools of twine. He was not a conversationalist but I enjoyed his company nonetheless when sent on a solitary mission to obtain provisions for the dinner. The one window in the shop offered the only seat of which was tiled and was a glorious respite in the summer to allow the backs of your legs ample time for cooling whilst waiting for your order.

When I would accompany my mother, proceedings took on an altogether different tone. She would exchange cursory greetings before denoting her request. Our butcher, not having a cabinet front of house to display his wares; as is now customary, would amble to the fridges out back and return with my mother’s order. It was never correct. For her.

“Do you have anything with a bit more marbling please, Michael?”

He would then amble behind the scenes, several more times, without a grumble or complaint, until my mother was duly satisfied.

“Lovely. I’ll take that so.”

I would be aghast at her brazenness and mortified on behalf of the poor butcher who had to entertain her antics. I tried to compensate for said apparent brazenness by not daring to look up from the sawdust covered floor until the order was handed to me on my solo trips. I would then extend a weak, apologetic smile in his direction. On the way home, I vowed never would I in any shape or form, imitate my mother’s behaviour at the butchers.

Ironically, it would come to pass, that the butcher I now go to is also called Michael.

“Michael, I need a nice piece now please.”

It is at that moment, that I hear my mothers voice coming from my very mouth.

“Do you have anything in the back with a bit more marbling?’

So, to all the mums, guardians and carers, Happy Mother’s Day. But especially, to my mother, who poured all of her love into every, single meal and taught me to never settle for anything but the best.