Mothers' Day Musings

Now let’s be honest, not everyone is in a celebratory mood.  Not all women can be honoured, and some may have difficult relationships with motherhood.   Exploring these realities can help readers reflect on the complexities of maternal relationships and foster compassion. 

Many African peoples regard the earth as a female deity, a mother-goddess who rules all people and is the mother of all creatures. The Earth lives and gives birth to every new generation of beings. She makes the grass grow when heaven gives her rain, and if there is no rain, she withdraws into her own depths, waiting for better times to come.  In the Far East, mothers are of the highest order, and in Japan, a mother stops traffic!

Only this morning I read of a woman in the Eastern Cape who has been found guilty of “selling” her daughter to a man; the child was 12.  On Thursday there was a programme on RSG about a girl who scraped up the courage to tell her mother about being abused, and the woman laughed and suggested her daughter had imagined things. As mind-boggling as it sounds, some women murder their children, deprive them of good care, love and affection; children have been locked in cages, burned with cigarettes, cut, bruised, bullied and bashed, hated, spat upon and starved mentally, physically and emotionally.  Read “It’s me Anna” and learn of a girl whose stepfather abused her for years; her mother refused to believe her.

A child, regardless of his circumstances, will always look to and for a mother figure; that’s how we were created. The most deprived human beings, brought to the most basic of states, will, even on a deathbed, crave the love of a mother or of the person who nurtured him. 

After lunch this afternoon, a man asked me to photograph him, and when I asked him his name, he told me who his mother was, reiterating it for me to remember;  she was Yvonne van Wyk Morgan.  His story highlights how mothers' influence endures, encouraging readers to think about their own maternal bonds and the lasting impact of love.

Thankfully, most of us are loved.

Today we celebrated Mother’s Day with my mom.   We were privileged to have both parents at lunch.  At 12h00 when we arrived, my Mom was dressed to the nines, be-jewelled, groomed in a finely tailored suit (she doesn’t do the slack suit), and her feet shod in Italian calfskin leather.   Although she would’ve liked to wear her pointy-toed Ferragamo, she didn’t get the nod.

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You see, she honours my dad’s seal of approval.  They were married in a time when women honoured, respected and were submissive to their husbands as the Good Book tells.  He loves her as he loves himself, and that, as God promised, was a winning recipe for a good marriage.  I’m sure they also had their challenges, but on a scale of 1-10, theirs was a high 9.

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As a modern woman and adoring wife, she to read the iconic 70s self-help book “The Total Woman it taught that “A Total Woman caters to her man’s special quirks, whether it be in salads, chiffon or sports,” and is perhaps best remembered for instructing wives to greet their husbands at the front door wearing sexy outfits, or draped in transparent saran wrap, with nothing (but herself) underneath. “It’s only when a woman surrenders her life to her husband, reveres and worships him, and serves him, that she becomes really beautiful to him,” Morgan wrote.   What can I say?  My children would say, “Too much info, Gramma!"

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As a child growing up, I took all the abundance of love and attention for granted, as all children do. I didn’t question any of the rules, as they suited me and made me feel secure, safe, and loved.

Once I turned sixteen, I became a monster who questioned authority, rules, and discipline.  Whatever my parents did or said, I certainly didn’t like, and I vowed that once I parented, things would certainly look a lot different, and my style and philosophy of child rearing would be 100% different.  It was a battle of wills, a fight that I had all the energy for; time was on my side, and I was going to give it my best shot.  My parents just ignored me, loved me, supported me and still laid down the rules, which I reluctantly obeyed.

Fortunately for them, it was a time of national pride to follow the rules; authoritarian rule was the order of the day. Although we might’ve thought differently, we certainly didn’t challenge anything and just toed the line.  For me it was a war of words and a battle of wits; for them, a storm in a teacup, and they just sat it out.

Children rarely know that there is a world revolving around greater issues than their period pains, boyfriends, pimples and grumpy teachers.   My ambition was getting away with smoking in the Tickey Box, going for a ride on Sam’s 60cc motorbike, sleeping over at the neighbour’s house so that we could go to the disco and stay out later than 11 o’clock. I also wanted a matric dance dress from a shop and a partner for the evening!  Twiggy was my role model, not the Queen, for the length of my dresses.

All this while my parents agonised about drugs, the Vietnam war, Apartheid, the economy, Nelson Mandela, lung cancer, heart transplants, my future, careers and goodness knows what else.  Grown-up South Africans had bigger fish to fry in the 1970s, but reading Lady Chatterley’s Lover was not on.  In no uncertain terms! 

And then I grew up; I forgot that I didn’t want to be anything like them; in fact, I didn’t know how I was ever going to be like them.  How I prayed to have her smile, her wisdom, courage, gratitude, unfailing pride, and unconditional love for her children.

How did they make their budget stretch to the end of the month, do the things they did, go on holidays, entertain and still find being grown up “fun”?  I know she made many sacrifices without complaint or regret; how many of us do that?

There are three things I still love best about my Mom: her laugh, her sense of humour, and the smell of her home.  As distinctive and unique as a fingerprint.   If I had to lose my sight, I’d be able to tell you exactly where I was in her beautiful home, filled with precious memories, each stick of furniture and piece of art carefully selected, perfectly arranged and lovingly cared for.  She still polishes her silver and brass; rubs the crystal to a bright shine, and serves her Five Roses tea in the finest porcelain.  Chipped cups and stained Tupperware have no place in her cupboards.  Her garden is peaceful, manicured and pretty.  On any given day, she’ll have fresh flowers in a vase, cookies in a jar, sweeties for the kids, and bubbles for the bath.

Children were rarely seen and not often heard when we grew up; there was no reason to see or hear us. We played then, school-school, shop-shop, farm-farm or rode bicycles, swam, ran, explored, played cricket and swing ball on the lawn, and if there was a minute to spare we read, played cards or constructed Meccano.

On the rare occasion when children were around, it would be in the evening when all obedient children were asleep. We’d be put down behind a couch or chair; that was my favourite thing, to drift off hearing grownups talk and laugh. My mom could laugh, sometimes a tinkle or a cackle, and on occasion she had a guffaw to shake any house down.  It was her lust for life and exuberance that couldn’t be stilled.

She certainly was no shrinking violet, and I imagine she was the belle of many a ball. I thought she certainly would be the prettiest there with her gorgeous evening gowns, which she designed and made on a treadle Singer and then beaded with hundreds of beads and sequins.  I couldn’t wait to see her make an entrance with her beehives and bouffant, sprayed (once accidentally with fly spray!) high-heeled, with Chanel red lips, as she floated on a cloud of Chanel No 5 or Joy.  Her jewelled evening bag would open like Pandora’s Box in the morning, with peppermints and After Eights for each of us, wrapped in a tissue or paper napkin.

Drama queen and perfectionist describe her to a T; she was hell-bent on her ABCs, and we had to say “how now brown cow” with perfect diction, poise, and that potato had to burn our tongues.   But her talents didn’t end there; the annual local theatre production was her doing too, where she’d pummel latent acting talents out of the local community.  I believe she sought out talented recruits while playing the piano at the Bungalows on a Friday night.

Today we salute our mother, whom we had to obey but could trust and respect.  Her example stood us in good stead, and she is our inspiration and motivation.  Her unconditional love and forgiveness for all the mistakes we make restore us and give us hope.   We are lucky to know that she prays for us every day, unceasingly.

She’s strong, honest, kind, clever, talented, creative, wise; she’s soft-spoken and brave.  She may be technically challenging, but she’s well-read, verbal, opinionated, and well-versed. She may forget a telephone number or a great-grandchild’s birthday, but she knows Western Province won their game and knows David Beckham’s turned 40 (and probably what his bank balance is too).

I admire her for never saying unkind words to or about someone; she never gossips and has never uttered a swear word; she knows how to choose her words carefully.  But above all this, I cherish her for loving my father unconditionally, for loving us and for being the best grandparent our children could ever have wished for.

If you're on the road at about 16h00 in the afternoon, you might spot them: a tall man with a head of thick, wavy, silver hair holding the hand of a tiny lady with an enormous hat pulled firmly over her head.

Elvis Presley said of his mother: “I never felt poor. There were always shoes to wear and food to eat -- yet I knew there were things my parents did without to make sure I was clothed and fed.”

And this is what he said about beauty: “The most beautiful thing in the world to me is a baby lookin' as pretty as her mama”.

Mom, today we celebrate you and wish you a long life; you’re our unsung hero who gives much but expects nothing in return.  You’re a rock star, and we're blessed to have you.

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