Monday, 24 August 2015

Mothering perfectly...

The tent catches the breeze and billows out as we grab hold of the edges, filled with strength as it pulls at our hands. Hammering the tent pegs into the soil, the scent of the earth fills the warm air. And my child laughs. The sound fills my ear canals, the middle ear sending vibrations along the nerves into my cortex. And then my soul billows like the tent, the breeze of her laughter filling me up, the joy of it so sweet, so precious. My eyes brim with tears as she runs across the field, the dog trotting beside her. Not sadness but a deep sense of gratitude for the moment.

I recall the professional telling me that perfect mothers do not exist. He hands me a tissue as I cry tears of regret, of fear. Being enough was all I could be, perfection was a lie I had been fed. Now, sitting around the campfire, the flames staining our skin with an orange glow, the night velvet around us, I understand that I have spent too long being deceived. For 15 years I have carried with me a conviction, a constant regret, a piercing fear that I would get it wrong. That my precious girls would be damaged by my inequities. So many moments lost, forever tainted with the cold feeling of ‘not good enough’.
If I could time travel, I would go back 15 years and sit beside myself on the hospital bed. My body aching from giving birth, my belly empty, exhausted but unable to sleep as I watch my newborn girl, swaddled, exquisite. I would wrap my arms around this new mother and I would whisper in my ear, ‘You will do well, you will not be perfect but you will be enough.’ Perhaps I would go and sit beside the mother again, on the kitchen floor as I cry tears of frustration, my strong willed, intelligent toddler refusing to do as she is asked. I would hand myself a cup of tea and whisper, ‘Breath. You are not perfect but you are enough. God has healed you, he has taken the anger and resentment, washed them from your innermost being.’ If I could time travel.
My girl and I lie on the beach, the sun baking on our shoulders, the dog panting at our side. We collect little pebbles and shells. They will fill the miniature glass pots we have just emptied of jam onto warm scones. Each stone represents the tiny steps we have taken towards this moment. We could not carry her as the anorexia consumed her, we could only walk beside her, guide her. This moment. I look up at the blue sky, I hear the waves, their rhythm a worship song. And I am filled with a deep gratitude. Now I know that I am enough. God is the only perfect parent. I whisper to my girl, ‘Do you know how loved you are?’ She smiles and my soul swells. She does.   

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