Flight pattern of a Mom. An essay.

 

“Some people would look at that and be embarrassed”

I was silent. I looked over my piece hanging on a wall, what did I miss? 

“Really? What would I have to be embarrassed of?”

“Some would look at that and think you wasted your life”

Oh… so we are not talking about my design now, are we.

A few years ago I wanted to fine tune my art knowledge and design skills so I went back to my local community college to hang with the youths.

I enjoyed everything about being back in a classroom setting. I love to learn, I especially love critique sessions.

I was particularly proud of this project, we were to take data and create a visual design out of it. I have always loved the swooping, loopy lines of flight pattern maps, coupled with a blueprint layout and color scheme and this is what I came up with.. Even now six years later I look at this piece and am impressed with myself, lol. 

We were often asked to defend our work. So when I tacked my rough draft to the board at the back of the classroom my mind was on the Fibonacci sequence, not what time Silas had to be picked up from practice.

“Some would look at that and think you wasted your life.”

I sat in stunned silence for a moment or two as the momma bear part of my brain had to come back out to play.. you see for these few hours every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I could be artist Amber, these two parts of me have always struggled for attention, and I find it hard to do them both simultaneously.

“A waste? Hardly!, please explain YOUR statement?” I said in turn.

Essentially he responded… 

“Is this all your life has been?

Long pause… with me thinking… truly one of the very few times in my life stunned into silence. 

I didn’t walk into a computer lab that day believing that I was going to have to defend the biological drive and desire that is my role as a mother… but here I was.

My dear readers.

Please help me understand when this idea of motherhood became something to be embarrassed about, or why I should have found shame in my many years with a wee babe at breast. Was that fateful day in 7th grade standing in the bathroom stall at Sultan Middle School problematic? Or rather was it the beginning of my monthly violent reminder of the very thing my body was designed to do.

Create.

At 15 weeks along with my twins, I took a nasty fall on ice. This was the first time I remember feeling maternal panic. Were they OK? Up until this point I had not felt them move and had only seen two tiny heartbeats on a screen.

With my cold rear on the ice I was filled with the now all too familiar feeling of, “Oh no, are they going to be ok? 

From that very moment on my complete self has focused on them before me in every single aspect of my being. 

I do not say this to be a martyr, boast or feel shame.. it just simply is. 

I have no more control of this than the earth spinning around the sun. 

I have been ardently informed by feminists and men alike, that I am not allowed to speak fondly of the season of life where we can focus on mothering.  Quietly around my table, many women have whispered this fact to me like they are admitting to shooting heroin in the early 90s. I can boast about all of my other accomplishments… just not my ability to sustain a life.

Instead, I should have bound my breast donned my best power suit, and pretended not to see the very earth groan with the desire to reproduce, to perpetuate life… to keep our species alive. 

Unfortunately, I have come to realize that we can’t blame this entirely on the patriarchy… I have spent the better part of DECADES watching as maternal figures positively destroy each other in all ways… we try to fit our maternal lens onto all the other women around us.. this can look as simple as shaming for McDonald's happy meals, the working vs. non, homeschool vs. public, breast vs. bottle, we shame women for marrying too early, then too late, we shame them for their infertility but then shame another for having too many.

No wonder the birth rate is down.

There are days when I tire of my stretch marks, while the kids have long flown the coop, these silver lines are now my companions. I am inundated with ads that assure me the next step to my personal post-childbearing happiness is a tummy tuck, the erasure of the beauty that was my pregnancy, and the stone-cold amazing ability to carry, nurture, and begat life. I don’t often see the patriarch on social media trying to convince me to get one, but the Kardashians sure seem to have a corner market on it. 

When we step back and look at the vast beauty that is any form of maternal love (aunties, step-moms, sisters, adopted mothers) rather than shame, we should feel empowered and a little in awe of what being a woman really means to society. 

Even if the only contribution I made to this world was the care and rearing of those 4 humans, it would be enough.

And somewhere along the line, we have lost this and when I look at the women (young and not so) who surround me, my heart breaks for them as they should be honored, revered, and lifted up as the incredible women my maker created them to be… just exactly how they are.

Sadly that day I was flustered.. caught off guard by such a question, in a place of supposed empowerment, by a man who was birthed by a woman whom I hoped loved him very much.

“Is this all your life has been Amber?”

Yes. Not one ounce wasted.

To answer my professor a bit more eloquently and six years later…

My flight pattern as a mom started when that pink line showed up back in 95, I’ve had layovers and delays. Spent very little time in first class, and a lot of time in the seat next to the lavatory.  My luggage has been lost more times than I can count and I’ve even had to deal with a few hostage situations… but I keep booking flights and accumulated mileage (stretch marks). In June I was upgraded to gold status and now the legacy continues via the most precious grandbaby I have ever laid eyes on.

I hope my final destination is still a ways off, I’m not quite ready to give up my wings.