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ARTS AND CULTURE

The imperfect mother

  • 08 May 2013

It is a terrifying and mystifying thing to be a mother. Even though motherhood itself is a state that is completely normal and natural, the passion of the maternal instinct takes many a woman by surprise.

The actual process of becoming a mother is much the same: despite all the information and education available these days, the business of giving birth is still a journey into the unknown, and no one can really accompany you to your destination. Unless it's your own mother: in Greece, grandmothers are often allowed into the labour ward in order to help their daughters.

My eldest son was born in Australia, and my mother was certainly not present at the event. But she came to stay for a week after my return from hospital, and did all those grandmotherly things: made sure there was a meal on the table, and that the washing was done, showed me how to manage the basic baby-care routines, and was always her very kind and loving self.

But I still remember the feeling of utter desolation that was mine as she prepared to leave, my helplessness at the moment of her (almost) driving off. She noticed: good mothers are adept at the business of picking up signals, of tuning into significant vibes. She got out of the car and said, 'Do not worry. You are perfectly capable of looking after this baby.'

Of course I didn't really believe her, but the vital, pivotal matter was the confidence my mum expressed in her firm, schoolteacherly way. Because she told me I could do it, I couldn't let her down, any more than I could let my son down. I was also dimly aware, and she had helped me achieve that degree of awareness, that I now had a soul in my keeping, as my soul had been in her keeping all those long years before.

And still was then, when I was a new mother. And still is, in a sense, even though she has been dead for nearly 20 years, and even though I am now a grandmother myself. I still consult my mother about various matters, and usually receive an answer, a process that teaches me, yet again, that motherhood never really ends.

In most societies it