For all of us who are not mothers.... on Mother's Day

This is by far and away the most read and shared thing I have written and I get messages about it today, even if I don’t remember to reshare it. I’ve had to tweak and add to it each year as I learn more about myself and the world. So I guess this annual reminder is handy!

For all of us who are not Mothers, on Mother’s Day.

The ones who won't get breakfast in bed, burnt toast and cold eggs made by clumsy little hands.

Not a hand drawn card, or a hastily bought bunch of flowers, or daffodils from the garden.  Who won't get  a long distance phonecall from a grown child off travelling, or at Uni - or a Special Lunch Out.  Not today, at least.

The ones who are asked the question, again and again - 'when?' and 'why not?' as if there was something terribly wrong with us.

Sometimes, even we think that might be true.  As if there was some secret we’ve not been let in on.

The ultimate sacrament of childbirth, birthing you into full womanhood, into full adulthood.  Like missing an important final exam and not being able to get the certificate that says:

'Yes, you are a Grown Up, you have arrived’.

Even though that's not true, of course.

This is for those whose wombs just wouldn't, couldn't, start to grow a life.

For those who felt life growing, perhaps many times - but those tiny ones slip away so easily.

Sometimes, we have to choose to let the tiny ones go, because we are not ready for them. This is also an act of love.

Nobody remembers the really tiny ones, except for us.  Especially today.

For the ones who went through the tense lottery of fertility treatment - and didn't win the prize.

For those who just didn't meet the right partner at the right time.

For those who find it's too late, for the Crone comes to sit with us all, gently holding our hands as the bleeding slows and stops - much sooner than we were expecting her.

For those who love one who cannot father children.  This is a silent sorrow, for it's not our secret to tell or solely our pain to bear.

For those who love one who doesn't want to be a father, and who after many tearful all-night conversations, make our peace with this.

For those who have lost the children they hoped and planned for because they lost their soulmate, and their planned-for life together along with him.

For the women who love women, whose love can make everything but a new life between you. Not yet, anyway. May you find a way, if you choose to. Families come in so many beautiful forms.

For my trans sisters who want to be ‘natural’ Mums. You are women, always and without exception, all the time. May science catch up with your longing, soon.

For the ones who decided that a beloved vocation, a calling, wouldn't allow Motherhood, too.  A hateful, painful choice few men have ever had to make.

For the ones who think that seven billion (and counting) of us is probably quite enough, and couldn't bring ourselves to ask Mother Earth to feed another little mouth.

For the ones who can't afford to give a child what it needs, perhaps materially, perhaps emotionally - perhaps both.  Who loved your imagined little ones enough to make that choice.

Those who have lost a child.  You will always be a mother, a parent, though you get no card today. Never let anyone say otherwise.

Those who simply never felt it was quite right for us, without even quite understanding why.

For the nonbinary folks and trans men who could not face the weight of dysphoria and society’s wilful, endless gendering of anything womb-related. Who work for our descendants to be able to make this choice, unencumbered and free.

This is for all of us.

Who have noticed friends and relatives drift away after having children.  The friends of years vanishing into a bubble of motherhood.  Leaving us with no children in our immediate circle to give us the company of little ones at least, because it's fun to hang out with little ones.

The ones who feel joy, of course - but also a deep, unspoken sorrow, when we watch one of our sisters glowing with pregnant bliss, or breastfeeding a little one, or catching the look of perfect love between a mother and child.

Of course it does hurt, sometimes.

Whatever our reasons for having none of our own.

We who know, of course, that we do so many, other, valuable things.

We are the ones who mother other people’s children, who are the parents of businesses, projects, ideas, gardens, animals, vocations, art, books, poems, blogs, scientific research, films, communities, causes and so much else......

Who know.

That being a mother is just one of many ways to be a woman. That being a natural parent is just one way to touch the eternal mystery of life.

Just one way, but one way that is held up as an impossible ideal - even for mothers.  The perfect Mama.

This isn't because I want your sympathy.  Because I don't, we don't, especially not today.  This one little post, today, isn't for all the lovely Mothers.

The Mothers we rightly respect and celebrate, and admire.  I wonder daily how you do the amazing, important, difficult job you do.  We should give you flowers every day.

Today, this is for the ones who are still waiting.

For the ones who know the waiting is over.

This is for you.  This is for us.