When I became a mother, I spent a lot of time thinking about what kind of mother I wanted to be. I wanted to be kind, caring, loving. I wanted to be the kind of mother that didn’t get caught up in the nitty-gritty of dirty diapers and spilled milk but one who celebrated the miracle of life my daughters represent. One who sang silly songs in the car, danced in the streets with them and lay in the grass beneath trees making up stories about the clouds and all the people walking by and even the dogs and cats too.
I did not want my impression upon their gentle spirits to be a heavy hand of authority, but a light touch of loving guidance filled with caring consideration for their unique selves and their needs to grow into independent, strong, self-determined women.
Today, when I look at my daughters I am in awe of the beauty of their human essence. I am in awe of their kindness, their caring natures, their capacity to stand for what they believe in, to speak up in the face of tyranny, to tear down walls of discord, to build bridges of peace and love and joy. I am in awe and always have been, in their capacity to make my heart feel like it is bursting with joy, that being their mother is the most precious gift I have ever been given.
I believe I was (still am) a good mother. I believe that despite my many mistakes, some big, some small, some ginormous, I am still a good mother.
Not because I did everything right. Believe me, I didn’t.
No. I believe I am a good mother because… Well, just because. I am.
It is a choice.
To believe in myself. Or not.
And, because I can and want to, lovingly let my daughters’ living their lives without my constantly telling them what to do, how to do it and when to do it. I want them to be able to speak be their truth, not mine.
It is perhaps one of the hardest things about being a mother to two amazing women. They have minds of their own, ideas of their own, ways of their own that carve out their own unique paths in this world.
It is not my way, my path. It is theirs and as their mother, my role and responsibility is to honour their ways, their path, their own unique voices so that they can be free to be in this world without fearing my condemnation, criticism and complaints.
As a good mother, my job is to give their words, ideas, dreams space to grow without my interference.
And yet sometimes, I want to beat myself up with the stick of having failed because I fear.
I fear they will not have a world where it is safe to sing freely, dance with abandon, write without caution. I fear this world we are co-creating in all our flawed humanity will spiral down into rigid morality where there is only one path, one way, — and that is the way of hatred. The path where racism, misogyny, territorialism grows stronger in the voices of those who believe all humans are not created equal, divine and miraculous, rise up and beat down the hearts of those who stand for the truth: We are all one humanity. One human kind. We are all One.