My Mother's Scars

Normally animated movies thrill me. Not this one. At least…not at first. Merida’s strength, ferocity, and herculean, black shire called my name, but something about the princess stabbed at my heart. Queen Elinor not only resembled my mom, but the queen and her daughter coexisted about as well as I did with mine. I disobeyed and was as disrespectful as Merida.

Thankfully, with age comes wisdom. When I grew out of my teenage “sagacity”, I came to learn just how much turmoil my mom had survived. I had dismissed her as weak, trembling, full of cowardice and void of confidence. I was wrong.

As time passed, I learned of her scars.

Children don’t often get to see their parents’ scars. Children see the best of everything, and often details go unnoticed by their innocent eyes. It was so with me. When I grew out of my childish ways, and had earned some scars of my own, I was able to see my mother’s scars.

Mothers are covered in scars. Some we can see. We, her children, put those scars on her belly, legs, and breasts. Some scars we can’t see…some scars were there before we were. The scars were carved by their own parents, siblings, family, friends…strangers. My mother isn’t weak. She is the way she is because the waves have not broken her. Many ships have sunk under the storms she has weathered. Storms may bend ships, cause damage, but my mother has come out of them still intact.

It is easy to judge our mothers because they are soft. As infants, we find safety in this softness: softness of skin, softness of fat, softness of spirit. As we grow, we take strength from our soft mothers and we turn to see them as weak. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Soft does not mean weak.

When I left home, I stayed with another mother figure. I admired her enormously. But…her mothering was unexpected. Soft but harsh and just different. I also came to disrespect her in my heart as well—part out of fear, part out of a haughty spirit. Again, through the passage of time, I came to learn of her scars. It’s amazing, the grace you grow, when you see someone’s past.

I see one of her blood children treat her with contempt and disrespect, disregarding the scars that carved her into the mother she is. While begging for understanding, he dishes out judgement. “My mother has ruined me,” he says. Most of the time, our mothers are doing the best they can with the scars they’re given. Someday he’ll learn of his mother’s scars and be thankful for her grace.

Those who have not experienced the pain of childbearing don’t give much thought to babies except the fact that they cry and poop a lot. A woman gets pregnant, she carries the baby for nine months, then it’s born, end of story. Those who have walked that path, though, know the truth: creating a human is not easy. A few months of constant sickness for some, months of fatigue for others. Stretch marks, hip pain, swelling…the list goes on. Some mothers have even died.

Nine months later, labor begins. Uncomfortable at first, then hours upon hours of wave upon wave of contractions the mother is powerless to stop. Through all of this, a mother brings a new life into the world, a life still completely dependent on her. Maybe her perinium ripped and she had to have her butt sewn back together. Some women’s tailbones have been broken during labor. Sitting hurts. She gets sore nipples, scarred nipples; painful, square-shaped breasts; clogged ducts. Roughly six months later, tiny teeth emerge from baby-soft gums and mothers have to gently teach their adorable baby not to chew on their already battle worn nipples.

Since becoming a mother myself, I am awed at how much thankless care my mother gave me. How many times did my mother suck my snot out to help me breathe better? How many blowouts did she change, how many late nights up nursing did she spend? These are things I never think about but were vital to my survival.

These pains are the easiest. Then we grow up and start criticizing our mothers. Innocent children tell their mommies they look tired. Older children ask them, “Why don’t you just walk to lose some weight?” Teenagers don’t even bother asking questions, they just silently judge at best or at worst, call them names. Finally, adult children say offhanded comments that sting their mothers’ ears without even knowing it hurt them.

Our mothers shield us and love us and comfort us, often while feeling all alone.

Our mothers are covered in scars. Some can be seen, others are buried deep. Many of those scars were there before our time. Many of the scars are there because of us. Many of the scars come after we are born and have nothing to do with us.

My mother is scarred. My mother is weathered. My mother is strong.

But most importantly…my mother is more beautiful for it.

Thanks for teaching me joy in resilience, mom. I love you.