the maternal spectrum
does mothering extend beyond the physical act of giving birth?
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One of the first things I learned in history class as a young kid was the start of civilization in Mesopotamia— the Fertile Crescent. We learned of the lush riverbanks that extended their hands to its people, encouraging them to stay through the seasons with their aqueducts and innovations— for the first time ever. How the River created life for all those who came after them, because the water fed the soil, filling it with fertility and source of all life. I could picture this landscape, lush with green and brown and blue, the brown water meeting everyone at the tall banks. In my own body, I feel those same waters filled with life and energy, pushing harder before against my edges— reminding me there is life waiting to begin. Tik, Tok. I long for the days when fertility was only associated with a river in a distant land, rather than an existential crisis questioning if the world is falling apart or what the correct moral decision is for reproduction. As a 32 year old woman, I smile at the toddler in the grocery store, eagerly pushing the tiny shopping cart built just for them. I send friends’ from home gift boxes of tiny things and colorful books. I stare a bit too lovingly at the tiny shoes in the store, daydreaming about the tiny limbs that fill them.
Fertility is no longer about a river in a distant land I will never see, simple and factual for my little brain to understand. Why does it feel like an impossible decision to make? How did the passerby-people of that time know the decision to stop running was the right choice?
Through my work, I’ve been thinking about mothering non-stop; the concept of being undermothered, the wounds it leaves us with, and the way our bodies’ and our systems’ push us toward it, regardless of those wounds, without a second thought. Like the hypotonic, mesmerizing walk that drew us to the riverbanks, all of those centuries ago.
Ive been a child caretaker my entire life. And doing so actually led me away from it. I’ve been a daycare worker, rocking and feeding six babies at a time. I’ve been a preschool teacher, pre-k teacher, an art teacher, a camp instructor. I’ve been a nanny to five different families over the years. I’ve raised many, many children. Dozens. I’ve witnessed myself grow alongside of them. Standing in front of so many little sponges, I’ve told them over and over how they could be anything they wanted to be. And I wholly and fully believed it. But I was watching myself shrink in my own life, as they grew bigger and threw themselves fully into their curiosity. I was envious of their bravery. Of the way they looked at the world with wonder.
Being around their natural instincts and fearlessness changed me— it pushed me away from the expected structure of societal expectation, and more toward finding my truth. I couldn’t allow the idea of having a child fulfill the confusion within me. I wanted to know who I was before I witnessed an offspring of mine dictate who I was. In the twelve years since graduation, I had learned how to raise children. I learned how to make bottles, how to swaddle, how to best teach reading and sight words and improve fine motor skills.
It became a very natural learning curve.
But I still needed to learn how to be me. And so, the idea of mothering and fertility went to the back burner for quite a long time.
The base of love I needed to create for myself in my 20s and 30s was necessary. I threw myself into uncovering my foundations lost to the sands of time. I needed to remember my true self. How to lick my wounds and care for that self— no matter how messy. I have given a lot of that time to other people’s children, and it made me happy. It kept life fulfilling.
But at the end of the day, I could always tuck them in, walk out of that house— and stay up until 3 am paintings in my studio. Other people’s children created the perfect distance between nurturing something little and something else like my life.
After perhaps one too many breakups and friends having second or third children, I find the thoughts of fertility creeping back into the corners of my peripheral vision. It confuses me. It consumes me. I cannot tell if the thoughts are mine, or if it’s that same glass of water poured by the patriarchy, being slid carefully across the long timeline of life— subtly reminding me that my role as a woman cannot truly be fulfilled without the participation of this one and precious thing. Sometimes I swear I can feel the fertility slowly draining out of me, as if each new full moon is draining all of the life I have left from my womb, my body slowly becoming a wasteland of dried up potential.
I kick my feet anxiously as I await my endometriosis specialist to enter the room. We talk about the treatment options and the growing scar tissue on my left ovary. The pros and cons of freezing eggs and the difference of freezing embryos. I leave and close the door of my car quietly, wiping the tears hidden behind my sunglasses. I feel angry that time is pressuring me. I feel annoyed that my best years of caregiving were for other people’s children, and then I feel guilty for having the thought. I feel ashamed that so many others knew in their 20’s that this was the decision for them. Why do I never know anything? Will I ever know?
I step into the studio with my drawings and paintings composed around my inner child and what it means to mother her. How the subject comes so naturally to my work because it so naturally flows through my veins. I wonder why my natural mothering skills are often overlooked or uncelebrated, simply because they have not raised children from my replica DNA. Does that make me less of a woman? Am I allowed to say that I am also exhausted, to a friend with a newborn baby with circles under her eyes? Are my problems less relevant because I have not been as self-sacrificing? Does losing your identity to raising children make you more honorable?
Mothering comes in many forms. I notice it when I choose to sit down and do a three minute meditation in the morning, rather than hit snooze. When I spend six hours weighing the flour and sugar and decorating a cake for a friend’s birthday, themed to fit their personality. When I allow myself to cry and be held by it, without shame. When I take Luna on a walk or steady her when she’s afraid, or when I feed the stray cat outside who still won’t let me get close enough. When I am a listener rather than a speaker. When I hold space for women. I notice my mothering during my advocacy, during the protection of others, and through the compassion of nurturing and leading.
I have been a mother all of my adult life in so many forms. I don’t know that it will ever be defined enough to be considered a role in my life, one where society recognizes it and the pressure alleviates. I don’t know if the dreams I have of what seems to be my little blonde girl, rolling the cookie dough between her fingers and hidden face— will ever be brought into this lifetime. I don’t know if I will spend my life grieving because I tried too late and my biological clock stopped ticking— or hide tears in a bathroom or closet because I am exhausted and mourn the quiet life before. I thought by now, I would know so much more. I thought by now, I would know.
The knowing that fills my heart is that I would be great at it, at being a mother, because I fulfill that role every day. Fighting against time and expectation only fuels the confusion within my body. Until then, I look at childhood photographs of me I’ve slipped from my parents house and into the studio— a little girl clutching her stuffed bunny with chubby cheeks and an uncertain smile— and I pay homage to her by picking up the brush the way my preschoolers did— with less hestitation and more knowing…. Thankful that my amazing mothering has saved us both.
