This week’s noon yoga class contained some different characters than what has become the norm. A

beauty near the back door, which was propped open to the spring sun, with an ebony braid as thick as a

rope; the variety of woman who might be 35 but might be 60, I couldn’t tell. A younger woman, clearly an

experienced yogi, pregnant with her first baby. The mother of two, her first son AJ born still, and her

second (and last, due to a harrowing labor and emergency hysterectomy) a 4-plus year old “wild man,”

coming back to classes after a few years’ absence. A mother/daughter duo, newish to our studio. The

rest, the handful of regulars, most with grown children. Motherhood, its joys and scars and often quiet

presence, was palpable in the room. There were no men in class on this particular day. Ladies with

no “germs.”

It is Mother’s Day week. I am a grandmother, a step-monster, an aunt, a Godmother. But I was never a

mother. Every Mother’s Day, the local grocery store gives a carnation to each woman as she checks out,

and I’ve always had to squelch the urge to argue back that I don’t deserve the flower. So much so that I

wrote an essay a decade ago, We Mother Each Other https://marybrat.com/2014/05/09/we-mother-each-

other/ to comfort that same instinct in others who feel undeserving of the Mother’s Day greetings that

come our way, intentionally or inadvertently. I get it—we do mother each other in so many ways, and

those with children like to thank the village that it takes to raise them. I’ve often reported the myriad ways

I have been mothered by women who are not my own mom, so I accept the sentiment, the card, the

carnation at the grocery store.

This year, in this era of my life, I know more mothers who have lost a child than I want to. That used to

mean miscarriage, stillbirth, infant death. Now, it also includes ladies my age and beyond who have

buried a grown or growing child. David, 37. Myles, 17. Lisa, 56, just last week. I sent her mom a Mother’s

Day card, although I’ve never met her.

That’s the point at which I must concede any claim to the title of mother. Whether by birth, adoption,

fostering, or whatever other iteration there is of choosing to have or raise a child, one succinct definition

(from Oxford Languages) of the word “mother” is a woman in relation to her child or children. In

relation, like the earth is to the sun. When one is no longer alive, the other—the Mother—is forever a

different human, just like whatever the moment was that made her a mom for the first time. Her

fundamental structure is altered. Yes, the rest of us are also changed when the birth or loss occurs, God

knows that is true for me too, but the change isn’t as comprehensive or complete. I’m reminded of the

movie Steel Magnolias and Sally Field’s character’s declaration, “I realize as a woman how lucky I am. I was

there when that wonderful creature drifted into my life and I was there when she drifted out.”

Oh, to be me…to have never had the pains, or the burdens, even the responsibilities of motherhood, but

to have been inordinately close to the joys, thanks to the mothers in my life. To have never given birth nor

pursued parenthood in any other way, but to have had my sisters and best friend place their babies,

living and deceased, willingly into my open arms. To have been allowed the privilege of close

grandparenthood from our kids who didn’t even meet me until they were in college. To have been raised

so selflessly by a mother who fought hard to have her own children, but who was technically abandoned

in a way by her divorced parents for a while. The “others” who stepped in for her and her sister, her

Polish-speaking grandparents and aunt-by-marriage, showed her just how to be a mother, in an

unconventional sense. That aunt, in fact, the one who showed such life-altering affection, became my

Godmother when I was born.

Truth is, I couldn’t—wouldn’t—have been the best mother, and I knew I could never measure up to the

unselfishness and commitment with which I’d been raised. I know no mom is perfect, but one thing is

sure, mine is selfless to an extent that I could never match. Even my sisters, whose flaws and shortcomings

I’ve spent a lifetime keeping track of (what sibling doesn’t?) impressed me beyond measure when they

became moms. They allowed me to participate in raising their children, and now they let me share the

rewards as their children become parents…and I’m awed to tears by seeing the whole thing come around

again.  

Mothers hand over their bodies…some for YEARS!…maybe in pregnancy or breastfeeding, but then their

sleep, their mental

health, their privacy. Their schedule depends on everyone else’s plans and health. They give up social lives

and career opportunities and a clean car. (Well-described in the lyrics to The Mother by Brandi Carlile,

please check it out at the end of this post):

“The first things that she took from me were selfishness and sleep
She broke a thousand heirlooms I was never meant to keep
She filled my life with color, cancelled plans and trashed my car
But none of that is ever who we are”

And I took on none of that. All that I did do was show up and give love, and I’m grateful that they all let

me do it. I got to sing “Rubber Ducky” in Bert’s voice for bathtime, and to read “just one more!” bedtime

story. I got to ride sidesaddle on an MRI machine to pacify a scared toddler.  I even “got” to be the

incumbent present adult when someone got her first period! I’ve chaperoned field trips (yes, I behaved)

and stood, hooded, in the sopping rain at soccer practice. And yes, I knelt at the feet of the gutted

mother holding her baby who had just slipped up to Heaven. That’s how close these moms let me be to

their motherhood.

Real motherhood is a thankless, thankless job. When I’ve been afforded the usually mundane tasks of

pouring the milk into a sippy cup, filling the bath with more bubbles than necessary, ordering the ice

cream, pitching the baseball yet again, even wiping up the vomit…I get thanked. When I’ve shown up at

recitals or sporting events, I’ve done so on a good night’s sleep and had time to put my makeup on.

Real motherhood deserves a Mother’s Day. The pause in time, not just for the dads and kids to make

their fair-to-middling attempts to acknowledge, thank, and appreciate you moms…but for YOU to pause.

For YOU to acknowledge that you have abdicated your very life in favor of your children. Willingly.

Lovingly. Imperfectly.

Mothers, YOU change the world. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Oh, and happy Mother’s Day. It may

not be spent exactly the way you’d like, but I have a feeling you’ll bear it just the way you do

everything else…full of grace.