LOCAL EXPATS CORNER: To all our mothers, near and far
Güncelleme Tarihi:
by Rose DENİZ
Oluşturulma Tarihi: Mayıs 09, 2009 00:00
Motherhood in Turkey began for me nearly three years ago, early in the morning in late October. In the history of motherhood, this is but a blip on a radar screen, but it connects me to a legion of mothers that have come before and will come after me.
It is humbling to think as mothers we carry in our eggs future generations, even more so when we know that the grandmothers who birthed our mothers carried the egg that created us. Nestled inside us are generations.
I just shooed my toddler out of the room to write the above paragraph, as he was methodically pulling every book off my shelves and putting to test my concentration and patience. How odd to write about being a mother while trying to steal time away to do it, when the little person who needs my attention, and about whom I am writing, is being a distraction. We spent most of this week in the hospital, trying to find out what was causing my son to throw up, and finding that all of us, including our baby daughter, had been hit again by the flu. While at the hospital, I thought that this is parenting. This is motherhood. This is what we do every day Ğ we get up and take on the vast risk that our children will experience life and that it won’t be fatal.
But what happens when the opposite occurs? When a mother leaves before a child is grown? As was the case with my own mother, who passed away when I was a mousy-haired, buck-toothed pre-kindergartener with a cherubic little blond brother who needed glasses. Over the years, his glasses broke so many times at the playground from bigger kids bullying him. I was an overprotective sister, bullying in my own right, singling out the boys who hurt my brother, and being a tattletale. This did not go over well, and my brother was actually more resentful of my help. I was getting an early taste of mothering, letting someone you love and want to protect go and get hurt.
The "mothers" in my life have been plentiful. They have included my older sisters who stepped in, my neighbors and family who became loving surrogates, my father who received Mother’s Day cards for years saying "Happy Mother’s Day, Dad!" and my stepmother and mother-in-law who have swept me under their wings. As I grew, I typically found older women and attached myself to them. I befriended babysitters, the mothers of friend’s, and later, created friendships with women often 10 years my senior or more. I preferred sitting at their tables drinking coffee and talking like an adult. I couldn’t relate to girls my age, and clearly I was looking for my mom.
Now, a mother myself, I know I am still grieving for her, but not in the same way as I did years ago. I want to know what her life lessons would be, how she would react to my toddler slamming doors and drawing on the walls. I know I have a unique relationship to my mother. I talk to her, and sometimes she answers. She can be very chatty and illustrative. Like the time I wrote to my godmother, and asked, "How did you and mom learn to be so patient? I never recall you getting angry unless someone was doing something dangerous enough to require a trip to the emergency room." As a mother of five she advised, and I listened, taking notes on the questions to ask myself about why I am getting impatient in the first place. She instructed me: understand yourself first, and patience will follow. And then, at the end, a postscript: "Ask your mom and she will show you, but you need to be listening and watching." My mother was of Jewish descent, and this is not the first time I’ve gotten the message that she is right here, beside me, a Jewish mother scolding from the beyond.
Because I was born of her, I am also of Jewish descent, and now my daughter. My daughter can claim three religions to her name, Christianity, Islam, and Judaism. Is this perhaps the greatest gift a mother can give? I am not certain, but I do hope, that at least in some small way she is symbolic of the potential for disparate things to exist peacefully. What is passed from mother to child may only be revealed generations down the line.
To all our mothers, near and far, to the friends who have mothered us, to the siblings who have reared us, to the fathers who have stood in place as mothers, to anyone who has held a loved one in their arms, a Mother’s Day tribute to them all.
Rose Deniz is a painter, designer and writer living in Izmit, Turkey. rose@rosedeniz.com www.rosedeniz.com
I just shooed my toddler out of the room to write the above paragraph, as he was methodically pulling every book off my shelves and putting to test my concentration and patience. How odd to write about being a mother while trying to steal time away to do it, when the little person who needs my attention, and about whom I am writing, is being a distraction. We spent most of this week in the hospital, trying to find out what was causing my son to throw up, and finding that all of us, including our baby daughter, had been hit again by the flu. While at the hospital, I thought that this is parenting. This is motherhood. This is what we do every day Ğ we get up and take on the vast risk that our children will experience life and that it won’t be fatal.
But what happens when the opposite occurs? When a mother leaves before a child is grown? As was the case with my own mother, who passed away when I was a mousy-haired, buck-toothed pre-kindergartener with a cherubic little blond brother who needed glasses. Over the years, his glasses broke so many times at the playground from bigger kids bullying him. I was an overprotective sister, bullying in my own right, singling out the boys who hurt my brother, and being a tattletale. This did not go over well, and my brother was actually more resentful of my help. I was getting an early taste of mothering, letting someone you love and want to protect go and get hurt.
The "mothers" in my life have been plentiful. They have included my older sisters who stepped in, my neighbors and family who became loving surrogates, my father who received Mother’s Day cards for years saying "Happy Mother’s Day, Dad!" and my stepmother and mother-in-law who have swept me under their wings. As I grew, I typically found older women and attached myself to them. I befriended babysitters, the mothers of friend’s, and later, created friendships with women often 10 years my senior or more. I preferred sitting at their tables drinking coffee and talking like an adult. I couldn’t relate to girls my age, and clearly I was looking for my mom.
Now, a mother myself, I know I am still grieving for her, but not in the same way as I did years ago. I want to know what her life lessons would be, how she would react to my toddler slamming doors and drawing on the walls. I know I have a unique relationship to my mother. I talk to her, and sometimes she answers. She can be very chatty and illustrative. Like the time I wrote to my godmother, and asked, "How did you and mom learn to be so patient? I never recall you getting angry unless someone was doing something dangerous enough to require a trip to the emergency room." As a mother of five she advised, and I listened, taking notes on the questions to ask myself about why I am getting impatient in the first place. She instructed me: understand yourself first, and patience will follow. And then, at the end, a postscript: "Ask your mom and she will show you, but you need to be listening and watching." My mother was of Jewish descent, and this is not the first time I’ve gotten the message that she is right here, beside me, a Jewish mother scolding from the beyond.
Because I was born of her, I am also of Jewish descent, and now my daughter. My daughter can claim three religions to her name, Christianity, Islam, and Judaism. Is this perhaps the greatest gift a mother can give? I am not certain, but I do hope, that at least in some small way she is symbolic of the potential for disparate things to exist peacefully. What is passed from mother to child may only be revealed generations down the line.
To all our mothers, near and far, to the friends who have mothered us, to the siblings who have reared us, to the fathers who have stood in place as mothers, to anyone who has held a loved one in their arms, a Mother’s Day tribute to them all.
Rose Deniz is a painter, designer and writer living in Izmit, Turkey. rose@rosedeniz.com www.rosedeniz.com