The other day, a definition of who is a mother was stated. That definition strips a mother of that title and reduces her to only a genetic incubator if she didn’t raise the child.
It’s a slippery slope because that thoughtless definition would not only strip my mother of that title, it would also apply to me…
By that definition, I am not a mother.
As, a, not a mother, then, why do I still grieve for my son decades later, and always will?
Now, when I think of my son, I recognise that I could have been a grandmother many times over if he’d lived and found someone and they wanted children. Throughout the years, I’d wonder what it would have been like to watch him grow up, see his firsts, successes, and, also, his failures. Every year on his birthday, my mind would wander to trying to picture what he’d be like at that age, what hobbies he might be doing. Those thoughts come out of nowhere during the time between his birth and his passing every single year. Once that season passes, I continue on until the next year when it happens all over again. It’s normal and applies to everyone we’ve loved and lost to death.
For me, I refuse that definition – my mother will always be my mother, I will always be a mother. Others aren’t as far into life and those words could crush them for a long time. For me, a momentary sting, at best, although, right now, I am still pretty vulnerable from mom passing and dealing with putting her affairs to rest.
Words have immense power.
Use them wisely.