I didn’t know that other mothers would have their 4 year old change out of their dress-ups before they went shopping.
I didn’t know that other mothers would’ve had a fit if they came home to their daughter having cut and sewn the bathroom curtain, or her wedding present pillow slips into wearable items.
I didn’t know that other mothers didn’t get up before their children every. single. day. And have food ready for them.
I didn’t know that other mothers didn’t say prayers at night – didn’t teach Sunday School or Scripture – or camp in miserable cow fields in the middle of winter to cook food for camping teenagers so they could come for an adventure and learn of God.
I didn’t know that other mothers wouldn’t welcome unexpected groups of teenagers landing in their lounge rooms at all hours, nor that other mothers wouldn’t feed them.
I didn’t know other mothers made their daughters feel small with criticism or cut them with sarcasm or whose first and most constant descriptor wasn’t the word ‘kind’.
I didn’t know that other mothers didn’t cut hair. Didn’t sometimes not have meat. Didn’t have to save for an 18c ice-cream but gave into others needs before comforts and wants got a look in.
I didn’t know you cried till I was about 5.
And it’s effect was electric as my little world was completely destabilised by the effect of that phone call on you.
I didn’t know the word atrocity. Or murder. Or that those words were the cause of your tears till years later. I didn’t know that other mothers didn’t stand as buffer between their kids and the worst of the world.
I didn’t know other mothers didn’t love every one of every shade of chocolateness of skin – the darker the better. Though I did perhaps know at 15 that not every mother had a 6 foot Ghanaian friend of her eldest son call them ‘mum’ for the few days they stayed and nestled a place in the family annals.
I still don’t know the middle of the story about the day you had your first heart attack while the twins were in their high chairs.
Or the middle of the one about the plane you were in that was hit by lightning over the mountains in New Guinea.
I didn’t know how much a foundation you would be for me till well after recognising the first dining set we had was like the one I grew up with. Or that 4 seemed the right number of children. Or that I (the least morningest person I know) would also try to be up most mornings with my husband and before the children.
I’ve never ridden a bike in terror down Greenmount Hill to a meeting I was being relied on to attend.
I’ve never stuck a bug in my shirt to see if the kids had been stung by them.
I never knew my normal wasn’t everyone’s normal.
I thank you Mum for our normal.
You are your name.
Dorothy – “gift of God”.