Helen Doherty learns that to be a good mother one doesn’t have to be perfect, just good enough.
Who ran to help me when I fell,
and would some pretty story tell,
or kiss the place to make it well?
My Mother.
– Anne Taylor (18th century)
Becoming A Mother
When did I become a mother? Was it when my first child was born, or when he was conceived? Or was it when the first flicker of hope and joy dawned on me, that I might be nurturing a special secret deep inside?
Our children were loved into life, created as a tangible expression of my husband’s and my love for each other. Being a mother is the most beautiful, inspiring life-giving thing that has happened in my life. It is also the most challenging, heart-breaking and confusing. There are no courses to go on to learn the necessary skills – you pick them up as you go along, working on intuition, thinking on your feet.
Babies come with basic instructions – ‘keep one end fed and the other end dry’ – with a powerful will to survive and a pair of lungs and voice guaranteed to ensure that survival. The nurses and midwives take good care of you for the first three or four days. Then the new family is sent home to live happily ever after.
Always There
A lot of what we know and rely on initially is what we learned and experienced at home with our parents. My mother was always at home, as most mothers were in those days, always there when we came home from school, eager to hear our news or tales of woe. She dried our tears and kissed us better when we fell, and in later years doled out tissues, tea and sympathy when we were broken-hearted over the latest romance.
I wanted to be that kind of mother for my children. I believe it is very valuable for them to have me at home. The security they feel does not make them dependent, but rather gives them the freedom to be independent, to move out into the world from a strong and secure family base.
This vision or ideal has probably been the most difficult to live, to keep believing in. We live in a world where success is measured by what you have and where you live. Your worth is measured by what salary you earn, what car you drive or what perks the job gives you.
Staying at home with the children has meant sacrifices.
We don’t have the money for the material things in life, we don’t have all the designer labels or go on a continental holiday every year. As a full-time mum I earn no salary. The company car is an older model, full of school bags and sports gear, ideal for ferrying children to school, swimming lessons, etc.
However the perks of the job are many. I can do my work as and when I please. If I choose to go for a walk, it’s no problem. The work will still be there when I return! I have time to spend with the children. I have seen them take their first steps, feed and dress themselves, start school, bless themselves. Together we have watched sunsets, rainbows, a bird in the garden and collected shells on the beach or autumn leaves for the nature table in school.
As the children get older, it is tempting to look at the jobs section in the newspaper and dream and speculate: I could do this, I’d be good at that. But always it comes back to the same question: What about the children? Who will care for them like I do? So I put the dreams on hold for another while.
No Time For Me
When the children were small I found life very tough. Coping with four small children was challenging in itself, but when one of those children was seriously ill, the pressure was unbearable at times. I remember juggling physiotherapy, potty-training, and breast-feeding at the same time. The winters were long. Wet days were interminable. I longed for four o’clock when Bosco was on the television and I would get a few minutes to myself, to go to the bathroom or prepare something for the children’s tea.
I know I didn’t always cope well. I was often irritable, resentful of the demands on my time, my life. I found it so hard to forgive myself for the times when I failed, when I didn’t respond lovingly to the children.
There were days when I longed to hear the sound of my husband’s key in the door and then picked a row with him because I’d been stuck in the house all day while he was out in the real world, having adult conversations, free to come and go as he pleased without little people in tow. I was confused, a mass of contradictions.
Good Enough?
People used to say, You’re great, a wonderful mother. This made me feel so bad. I’d think: If they only knew what I was like, that I shout at them and get angry sometimes.
What happened to my dream, my vision? The extra stress of caring for a sick and dying child, while trying to keep family life as normal as possible, and seeing to the needs of the other three children, gave me little time to reflect on my life. While continuing to live the dream of being there for my children, being the perfect mother, I had lost sight of the good that I was doing, the difference I was making to their lives. I failed to see the value of handing on the faith in the home, helping with homework, reading bed-time stories, adding wonder and magic to the children’s lives.
For years the guilt over being less than perfect as a mother eclipsed the joy of helping my children grow.
Looking Back
Since my son died and the other children are growing up, I have more time. Time to look back on my life as a mother, time to notice the good as well as the bad moments, to accept them all as part of the human journey, time to forgive myself for not being perfect and for the times I’ve failed. I have come to believe that I am a good mother – or should I say a good-enough mother – and that’s ok.
An added blessing has been a change in my relationship with my parents. In forgiving myself, I have also forgiven them for anything that was not perfect in my childhood. I accept that they were a young couple, like my husband and I, who became parents and then did the best they could, day by day, sometimes getting it wrong but mostly getting it right.
Looking Ahead
As the children grow into their teenage years I am faced with new challenges, questions, as they struggle to find their own identity and become independent. I still don’t have the answers, still rely on intuition, think on my feet and silently pray: Holy Spirit, help me with this one.
I am more content these days, knowing I am doing my best, and that I am not alone. I believe the Father, Son and Spirit are with me and the family, watching over us, pleased with the efforts we are making. With their help I look to the future with confidence.
At the end of your life,
it will not matter what kind of house you lived in,
how much money you have had in your bank account
or where you went on holidays.
What will matter is
how much you meant in the life
of a child.
(Anon.)
by Helen Doherty
