Post 14: Motherhood Adapted

Motherhood Adapted

“I like Daddy more than Mommy because he makes me breakfast,” proclaimed our five-year-old son as we sat on the couch getting in last cuddles before bedtime.

Under normal circumstances, such a comment wouldn’t bother me, his mother. It is the careless, flip-flopable by day or hour comment of a young child to be shrugged off.

It wouldn’t have bothered me three years ago, when I could still fix food and perform so many other parenting duties. But now, my slowly paralyzing disease, ALS, has rendered me unable to do the smallest of tasks much less a complex one like making toast.

I can’t walk to the kitchen. I don’t have the strength to open the fridge door nor the flexibility to reach the cabinet door. I lack the dexterity to open a bag of bread, use a butter knife, and all of the tiny steps in between.

So when Reuben says this, all my insecurities, fears, and sorrow tumble out.

I tell him I would if I could. This is an understatement—I desperately want to not only make him breakfast, but put away the materials, sweep up the crumbs, wipe his little face, and wash the dishes until my fingers raisin.

His seven-year-old sister says “it’s because of her ALS. If mama tried to make breakfast food it would go everywhere!” She pantomimes me pouring ingredients in a bowl, hands flailing about wildly. Her portrayal is unfortunately accurate.

He doesn’t seem to fully grasp all of this. In his mind, one parent takes care of a basic need, delivering joy and sustenance, every day. It brings up a deep, painful longing in me: to do all the simple acts of caring for another, what I see as the core of motherhood.

It’s been years since I have carried my children, read them stories, helped them with a stubborn zipper or inside out pant leg. Mothers are already uniquely prone to feeling guilty about perceived shortcomings and missed opportunities. But when you can’t physically take care of your children and instead observe as someone else does? It’s a weighty sorrow of motherhood diminished, just within reach but altered.

And it makes me realize just how “enough” I was before. How enough all mothers are, so long as they are doing their best, most of the time, within their individual circumstances.

At times I have that feeling of enough. When lying in bed with my daughter listening to an audiobook, my hand resting on her little rib cage. When racing my son on my electric mobility scooter, he on his foot powered one. Countless other moments of connection.

I’ve had to adapt from viewing caregiving and more active involvement as meaningful acts of motherhood to accepting that showing them love and giving them my undivided attention can be just as meaningful.

But every now and then, I still need to grieve the mothering life I imagined. And inevitably and out of necessity, return to feeling enough just as I am.

Originally seen on Motherwell.