Valiant hearts

Motherhood elicits a lot of emotion for everyone who has one, is one, has been one, wants to be one or is unable to be one, or has made a clear choice to never be one. 

I’d like to acknowledge my friends who have lost their mothers, who tell me they feel untethered in their souls as they float through a grief unique to their relationship with the one who gave them life. No words make this easier. I wish you strength.

It’s not a popular thought, but I’m not a fan of Mother’s Day. I prefer spontaneous moments of connection with my children. Like when my son offers to swap my snow tires for summer ones to save me money. Or when my daughter makes me a cup of tea because she knows I need one after a day of too much peopleing. Simple, sincere, thoughtful gestures. 

Motherhood is the longest career I’ve had, despite being totally unqualified for the role. Zero training. No pay. Not a single promotion. No pension. Vacations only if the kids came along. The HR department was toddlers turned teenagers who argued like defence lawyers. Years of eye rolls, hormone rages (mine mostly) and sleepless nights waiting to hear them come home in the wee hours, counting the shoes in the morning. I failed more than I succeeded, yet the kids wouldn’t fire me and I can never retire. Motherhood is not for the weak. 

I find this stage of life lonely. My friendships revolved around a collective community centred on raising children. That’s shifted now. My world has become smaller. Partly by choice, partly by circumstance and partly because people are afraid I’ll write a column about them. 

And so, I will. This column is dedicated to the mothers, grandmothers, step-mothers and guardian mothers who have crossed my path on this wild journey of motherhood. Every single one. 

From the preschool committees and playground benches, to school parking lots, dance studios, hockey arenas, horse barns, theatre rehearsals and rugby pitches. If our paths crossed, you’ve influenced the mother I’ve become. 

My greatest gratitude goes to the mothers who didn’t pretend they had it all together, to those who understand our struggles aren’t equal, to the ones who didn’t judge, and yes, even to the ones who did, I’m better for knowing you. 

To the mothers who trusted their maternal instincts over the opinions of others, because they know what’s right. To the mother’s who battle illness to keep loving. For the mothers who show us in grief that love bonds are sacred. For the mothers who wait for a cure, or raise funds so another family won’t have to. For the mothers who healed generational wounds to end the cycle. For the moms who packed the kids in the car and fled in the night to keep their babies safe. For the moms whose child doesn’t fit the mould, whose sacrifices are greater than most will ever know. I see you. I am you. For the mom’s who ask for help when their children cannot. These are the women who showed me the way.

I’m blessed that my mom, Lynda effortlessly shifted from mommy to role model to my dearest friend. Thank you for loving my children as much as I do and trusting my instincts.

To your valiant hearts from mine, I thank you.