I am well past the stage of mothering small children. However, I have the privilege of being witness to the mothering talents of my two dear friends, DeeAnn and Jen. I’ve often wondered how I managed to become heart friends with these two women who were raised in the generation behind my own, but speculation about this phenomenon is beside the point. Among the treasures of their friendships with me has been the front row seat I occupy in observance of their exquisite mothering. They are exquisite mothers, both of them.
From my front row seat at these mothering performances, the first thing I notice is that the stage is quite small. The essence of the story happens in, what? a maximum of 27 cubic feet of space, I’d say. An invisible chamber of creative power.
Because mothering is all about the lap. A mother’s lap is the source of all goodness in the universe, don’t you think? If you could tap into your deepest need, isn’t it a lap you long for most? I mean, if you weren’t embarrassed to admit it, don’t you sometimes crave a warm soft place to just plop down and lean?
Their laps are magical, as I am awed to observe. The emotional sustenance that emanates from this place is palpable, substantive. The simple act of holding a child, meeting him or her with a full mother’s presence, creates an invisible bubble of the best stuff in the universe – an ambiance of safety, nurture, warmth, connection, and peaceful being. I’ve watched all five of these little children – Grace, Abby, Liam, Amelia and Lucy – consume that stuff like a 757 consumes jet fuel. They’re gluttons for it. It runs the universe, this stuff.
Watching them makes me wistful, taps into my longing. From my front row seat I often wonder, who would I be if I had been loved that well?
But that is my empty, as Karen wisely wrote. That is my empty. That is my full.
Yours too, no doubt.
I recently discovered your blog through Jen Lemen’s recommendation. I don’t have a blog myself and very seldom comment on others blogs, but I had to write you after reading your past few posts. I appreciate you sharing these incredibly vulnerable feelings more than you can ever know. While I am fairly young (30), and my mother is still alive, I feel I can completely relate to what you are feeling. It’s very strange to have a mother and yet feel motherless. Reading your blog this week has helped me feel I have a companion as I greive.
Thanks again,
Emily
You are kind.
The funny thing is, not five minutes before reading this, the three of us were piled in the rocking chair and I said, “A thousand square feet of urban palace and you two have to be ON TOP of me!” Your words bring me back from the verge of annoyance. It must be the magic lap at work. š
Hi!
I’m Sopie, Slanderwoman’s recently found sista.
Happy Easter y’all!
My mother was wonderful in oh so many ways. But I have no memory of sitting in her lap or even of being hugged by her. She said and did very nice things and was never in a bad mood, but she was not physically affectionate. I am much more physically affectionate with her now—I sort of tuck her in at night and rub her back and kiss her cheek, and she loves it—than she ever was with me. I once long ago asked her about it and she said she was sort of afraid she’d hurt me if she hugged me or something pathetic like that. And there is no doubt that she adored me, worshiped me–I was the perfect child after all– but it was from about 3 feet away. So I spent my first 40 or so years getting hugs in any way I could, and I was pretty resourceful in getting them. I’m sure my life would have been a lot easier had I gotten thousands of hugs and lap visits when I was a kid.
Who would both of us have been had we gotten that? Darn near perfect adults probably. : )
Much love,
Kerry
Dear Emily,
Welcome. I’m glad you find some solace in this shared experience.
And Kerry, how ironic to be the perfect, but untouched child. Kinda messes with the head, doesn’t it?