She is the Earth goddess, she with the pure, unconflicted selflessness, a woman of iron and silk. Mother: the heart and soul of the family machine.
She has made conducting the family affairs her entire life, almost critic-proof, pursuing the task with single-minded, blow-torch intensity—a task quite simple in its complexity; providing all she touches with an extraordinary impact which strengthens all invisible filaments that make up our own adult lives.
She makes nurturing her children her purpose, with a kind of love that acknowledges neither restraint nor qualifications. Such is the world she orbits.
It will be utterly unthinkable and quite naïve to picture a mother’s life in a fairy tale setting. For mothers, such dreamy stuff easily leaves off and reality creeps in. Once a mother, always a mother. It’s as irreversible as that.
A mother’s life is like a rose; beautiful but replete with thorns.
A mother is made of super strength, capable—no, more than capable—of doing anything that has to be done. She fights the hardest when all seemed lost up to the last possible moment of a martyr act. Mothers have the grace of elasticity coupled with a masterly grasp of things that surpass her physical and emotional carrying capacity.
Never mind that, of course, some women do not see motherhood as a life-changing move but those are probably one-off cases. They see mothers as women trapped, bored, and in a hopeless daily rut, with frayed nerves smearing their sanity.
A mother’s life is one of leisure scarcity. On a good night, she gets five or less hours of sleep. When a child is sick, she gets much lesser. There’s all that laundry to get done and ketchup stains to erase. Endless meals to serve on time. Early morning lifts with ear-splitting shrill, instead of an uplifting cup of coffee, because the baby’s diaper is wet and heavy. The kids forever at sword’s point. The years of tiny commotions. Teenagers night-owling somewhere past Cinderella hours. And at times, dealing with overripe infants.
But guess what? When you leave home to have a life of your own, your suitcase will be packed with a heavy load, an existential debt, but none of the actual money debts that are paid out. Gratitude, memories of love your own mothering instincts will have learned from her such as those hallmark, all-time mother lines: “I told you so!” Those finger-waggings to remind you time and again: “Do not play ball inside the house!” The parting words when you went out on dates: “Guard those hormonal stirrings, my dear. Save something for the wedding day.” Old-fashioned morality, you thought, but it ought to work out well.
And the meals! The thousand meals she did! The feasts she did with all the left-over food! The kisses that bandaged the knee scrapes—always predictably sweet, always predictably reassuring. And you know she will be there with you with her I-love-you-no-matter-what resolve.
Nothing like a woman who’s tender but can apply vicious karate chops at bullies in the neighborhood. You know she’ll walk through fire for you.
And at the restful end of her life, there’s nothing corny about giving her a bunch of flowers on Mother’s Day. With her, your world has become bigger.
Additional photos by Diana B. Noche