Maternal love does not stop at the womb
By Carol Fisher-Linn
“I Remember Mama.” I confess, I was one of those pajama-clad kids, gathered in front of the black-and-white tv with my entire family every Friday night from 1949 through my early teens in 1957, watching this beloved show. We were captivated as Mama’s daughter, Katrin would leaf through the family photo album saying, “This old album makes me remember so many things in the past. … And I remember my family as we were then. My big brother Nels, my little sister Dagmar, and of course, Papa. But most of all, when I look back to those days so long ago, most of all, I remember … Mama.”
It’s a funny thing, now, isn’t it? As Katrin above said, “and, of course, Papa,” yet we most remember Mama. Is it primal? Is it because her voice was imprinted into our embryo selves? Is it a result of the “golden hour” when mommy had uninterrupted skin-to-skin contact with her newborn? Is it because hers was the first face that appeared regularly in our formative years? The fact is, for most humans, the bond with Mama is powerful.
My sweetest memories of my Mama are coming home from school or work and always finding her in the kitchen, humming, baking, cooking, in the garden tending her roses and vegetables, or in her sewing room. I could count on her to be there with a ready ear to hear my stories of the day, or my dreams for the future, with a piece of home-made pie to energize me for the telling. Instead of tsk tsk-ing, which she often did on other topics that she disapproved of, she would smile encouragingly and ask how I planned to make it happen. No words of caution, no criticism. Just acceptance of her zany daughter’s newest dream. Dad? Not so much. He was preoccupied working and keeping our family afloat in hard times. Mama was easy to talk to. She was PRESENT. Her love was unconditional.
When I assess my list of friends and acquaintances, I find women who are not birthmothers yet seem to be as important to their families as if they had birthed them themselves. It’s proof that maternal love doesn’t have to start in the womb. It manifests itself in commitment, unconditional love, dedication, genuine interest, and fierce protection.
Whether your own mom is known to you as mother, mommy, momma, ma, or in other cultures, Ummi (Arabic), Matka (Polish/Czech), Mutter (German), Mam (Dutch), Madre (Italian) or my favorite, Haha (Japanese), she invariably is the best, the greatest, the most wonderful mom in the whole world. Mother’s recognition day in some form or another is celebrated around the world, perhaps in all 195 countries! In America, we can thank three women for starting the recognition: Ann Reeves Jarvis, Julia Ward Howe, and Ann’s daughter, Anna M. Jarvis. The story goes that Anna overheard her Sunday school teacher, Civil War activist mother, praying for a remembrance day to spotlight the important work mothers do for humankind. Known as “Mother Jarvis,” she organized “Mother’s Day Work Clubs” to combat unsanitary living conditions and teach young mothers how to safely care for their young ones. During the war she organized women’s brigades asking women to be impartial while serving, even going so far as to propose a Mother’s Friendship Day after the war to promote peace between former Union and Confederate families. Julia Howe (author of “The Battle hymn of the Republic”) felt that mothers should gather to prevent the cruelty of war and waste of life because mothers know best the sting of lost loved one’s lives. In 1914, President Woodrow Wilson signed a bill designating the second Sunday in May as a legal holiday.
This Sunday, celebrate your mom by wearing a carnation (pink if she is living, or white if she is no longer among us). If she’s near, visit. Take her to brunch, take her a flower/gift and spend some quality time. If she is far away, for goodness’s sake, call or FaceTime her early in the day so she knows the call was not an eleventh-hour afterthought. And, always, always, give prayerful thanks for having the very best mom in the whole wide world.