Mapping Motherhood

Motherhood? I’m making it up as I go along. I think most women do. But I began with a slight- no, significant- disadvantage. Included in the natural inheritance from mother to daughter should be a map of what to expect when expecting. A tried and tested route, relaying how best to navigate the vast landscape of maternity and beyond. A heritage of direction to reassure the new mother of the best paths to tread (consistency, security, health) and signposting areas to avoid (neglect, repression, disorder). Lucky daughters will be gifted with knowledge of the safest routes as a knowing mother remains close by and watching lest the child lose her way. I believe that’s how it should be but I wasn’t that fortunate.

My mother and I exist poles apart. When pregnant with my first child, she tossed me my bestowed map and left me to it. But the map she gave me was incomplete, too tattered and torn to navigate the new territory I was committed to explore. My inherited map was a scrawl of dead-end roads and nameless streets, the contours broken and blurred. I couldn’t read it. I didn’t like it. I threw it away.

I held on to a vision of what I thought a mother should be (interested, present, affectionate- her opposite) and I clutched my empathic compass close as I tentatively began to trace my way towards an ideal of which I had no experience. My only choice was to begin where I stood, my husband helping me set off on the right foot. But he couldn’t walk with me. He was out exploring his fatherhood.

I drew myself a map by becoming attentive to all things maternal on my pilgrimage to motherhood; from lullabies to muslin folds to first cut teeth and those awful endless nights with no sleep. I roamed unfamiliar terrain, often exhausted from traipsing all night, backwards and forwards, soothing an infant’s cries. I carefully measured the steep corries of depression and clearly marked out ways to avoid them. I took wrong turns in anger and forgetfulness and misunderstanding. Sometimes I was lost for days, months, in deep valleys of worry; sometimes I was swept off in currents along rivers of petulance and selfishness. Ashamed of my mistakes, I would haul myself out and get back on track. Of course, every new mother walks this land, finding the way that suits her best, but there’s no doubt it’s less daunting with an experienced guide.

Motherhood is a world of decision making and I have been constantly aware of the giant mother shaped hole in my life as I make choices for my children. I wish she had been present to point out signposts leading to lochs of maternal confidence; or to provide grid references for where to find the resilience to teach boundaries; or show me markers to the mountains of patience I’d need for teenage girls. Most mothers will be required to visit these destinations but some have legible directions to follow, while others have no more than a vague inkling of which way to go. But the maps of mother and fatherhood can overlap and I always have him, checking in to see if our tracks are aligned.

Time and time again I wandered down one-way avenues, sometimes finding other mothers crowding my path with opinions. Sometimes I wandered into their paths and littered their space with my own opinions. I reciprocated their scorn, forgetting my way, forgetting to check in with my compass. But I learned and liberated myself by plotting a cemetery where I buried harsh words in a Judgement Graveyard. That’s the first place I’ll show my daughters.

My mother wasn’t there to tell me which opinions mattered and which didn’t. It took me a while but I figured it out. And the friends I made were generous to tell me where they were heading, and sometimes I followed and sometimes I didn’t. They smiled to see the streets I chose and we waved to one another as our paths crossed. I’m forever grateful for their encouragement. I’ll tell my daughters to be courteous travellers through the land of motherhood.

And my mother?

I missed her most when I wept with exhaustion from nocturnal feeding, nipples cracked and eyes red raw.

And I missed her most when I was lost in the forest, scared and small, fretting over the fever of my tiny daughter.

And I missed her most as I sat on the beach, warm and full, my arms wrapped around the lives I had made, my head on my husband’s shoulder.

On my map of motherhood, I’ll shine a torch for my daughter when darkness falls. And give her a coat to keep her warm. On my map of motherhood, there are beaches galore and I’ll tell my daughter to visit them often, I’ll visit too. We’ll sit there together and sing a sunset song in close harmony, mother and daughter.

And I know motherhood is a hard course to track for all new mothers but still it remains my greatest adventure. I’ve swam in seas of love and affection; I’ve traversed the ridges of risk with first steps and thrilling fearlessness; I’ve breathed in the clean air of triumph after climbing mountains of perseverance. I love this epic trek and with my heart in my mouth I have claimed motherhood as my own.

And my husband and children continue to look on, flying my flag in blind faith as I find my bearings and navigate us all home, although I’m still prone to wandering off the beaten track. And while I continue to travel through unknown territory, I’ve created an inheritance that my daughters might use should they ever need to navigate the landscape of motherhood; a map of dirt tracks and U-turns and alternative routes. It’s not the neatest but I’ve charted hidden ravines, the clearest pools and the highest peaks with the greatest views- the best places- all found by taking the roads less travelled. The sense of achievement from plotting my own map has far diminished that gaping mother shaped hole. Through relentless exploring I’ve filled it myself and the map that I made, I am proud of.