It's Mothering Sunday in the UK and Ireland, and although I celebrate the American one in May (the Philippines, where I was born and raised, is heavily permeated by American traditions and Americanisms), I'm prompted to share my thoughts and feelings about today's important celebration as I had one of those occasional bursts of motherly instinct yesterday.
The Mr was made a godfather to a very close friend's daughter. I came along, of course, as it's a major family gathering.
We stayed after most of the guests have left, and we all gathered around the dining/front room to properly catch up and banter with each other. Our friends' eldest son, who's been doing some watercolour artwork lately, made a hilarious portrait sketch of my partner. The nine-year-old then offered to do mine.
|He directed me to look at him then turn my head sidewards. I think he has perfectly captured my aura. What do you think?|
My fondness of him stems not only from the fact that he's such a lovely boy, an entertaining conversationalist who loves hanging around the aunts and uncles, he's learning the piano, very sporty, and he gives the tightest hugs; He's the same age as the son I almost had.
It's been almost a decade, and though I sometimes think that I have hurdled the psychological and emotional scars of that unfortunate incident in my life as a young married woman, there are moments and instances when I miss motherhood --that stage, of which I have not even experienced the full and entire process, and the larger-than-life experience afterwards.
A made-up term for that is anemoia, or nostalgia for a time I've never known. It's from the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, which is saved for another post.
I sometimes long for that child, and I have entertained thoughts of having one especially now that I'm with someone who, without an inch of a doubt, will make an excellent father.
But at the same time, my desire to have children is not the same as it was a decade ago. It has eroded over the years, for every year that it was put off for another year.
|Me and the artist|
No. We, child-free women, are not selfish, as some pre-judge us.
Some of us do not deliberately and consciously choose to be child-free. Sometimes, being child-free is brought about by circumstances that are beyond our control or life events that open up and cement a realisation that not all women are meant to be mothers by virtue of having a womb.
I am past the concept of bearing children for the sake of having them as society expects me to. Not even my conservative mother is bullying me, so why should I accede to the rest of the world?
The Mr and I sometimes joke about being parents to win the you-don't-have-chidren-you-don't-understand argument with patronising parents. Or I marvel at the idea of us having beautiful mixed race kids who will probably go on to become actors or beauty queens, or comedians (I know, that's gone too far, and an indication of a possible stage-mother inclination). But these are not reasons to have children.
Still, the one thing that keeps me hanging on to passing on my genes is I may regret not having little ones when I know I'm capable of giving life to them.
But then again, that's life. Sometimes, the most obvious life path and decisions are the most difficult to take and make.
My ovaries still have a few good years before they finally give up on me, and I have not entirely given up on the thought of being a mother. But in the meantime, I'm settling for being the doting aunt or godmother. The world can never get enough of mother figures!
Happy Mothering Sunday 2015!