Yes, it’s Mother’s Day (here in the great Down Under) and I’m yet again, pulling out the keyboard to write up a BIG THANK-YOU MUM post. So what does one write when she knows that her mother will probably never actually read this Internety open letter? A diatribe on the quirks and quandaries of one’s family tree? A psychological analysis of every err in one’s mother’s ways? I think the problem with 18-year-old me was that I never truly understood what my parents had to go through to bring two little squealing, chubbsters into the cold-harsh world and bring them up without either one of them turning into a heroin addict with severe paranoia issues, more than four body piercings that were not ear-orientated and a list genomically-listed STIs. It’s strange how 18-year-old me never appreciated her parents. How 18-year-old me was such a humongous douche in the face of honest love, care, compassion and a type of fervent lack of tact (of which I have somehow managed to genetically contract).

Childbirth (also called labour, birth, partus or parturition) is the culmination of a human pregnancy or gestation period with the birth of one or more newborn infants from a woman‘s uterus.* I love my mum for going through this horrible situation, namely “childbirth” and pushing me into the world. And I say pushing (and possibly heaving) with the utmost bucket of the knowledge about the difficulties of my birth. Mine was a difficult birth. There was much in the way of hemorrhaging, screaming, shock, transfusions and all the other icky business that comes with a child that is critically too large for the birth canal. Let’s just say, I was a ginormous baby and my poor mother was bed-bound for weeks on end after I was spawned from the happy, gluggy warmths of my mother’s uterus into the earth’s atmosphere. And no, my dear mother didn’t wimp-out and opt for a  caesarean section, despite my cinder-clock head making the best effort at effectively ripping her entire body into two, comically gangly one-armed-on-legged creatures.

So, to me, my mum is my ultimate hero.

Unlike many of my selfish generation, I want kids. Two, at least. My greatest fear is that when they times comes for me to say: “I’m trying for a child.” I simply can not have children. I have a true and simple fear of this. I have a fear that I may never be able to conceive. And, even in saying this, I know that there are many who are desperately wanting children of their own, who have been trying this technique, or that method and my heart does out to them. It’s a difficult path. But, no matter what difficulties may come along from each one of us being born into the world. The pain that one receives from their children, or vice versa, I want to be able to experience it, and in some way be able to make a difference in my child’s life. To see everything. To be there from him or her (or, if things go to plan Him AND Her).

My own mother is kind, loving, compassionate, health-obsessed, focused, slightly neurotic, bone-shockingly hilarious and maintains an odd weakness for strange coloured ice-blocks and pronouncing bizzare and sometimes pseudo-racist statements at the oddest moments. I am thankful for every day I have and can share with my mum, despite the fact that we can still argue like a pack of hyenas on a bad acid trip. When I grow up*** I know I will be like my mum, and I’m not scared of that. My mum possesses all the values I cherish and look for in my friendships and relationships – except for maybe the health-obsessiveness.

So mum, if you happen to be trolling the Internet and stalking me from my website (rare, but it can happen), I love you very much.
You mean the world to me.
And we’re eating at Buo Ling for dinner at 6.30.
I hope you’re okay with that.

I’ve already made the booking.

* I’m sorry for the men who are are feeling queasy at this moment, but one cannot simply talk about pregnancy without mentioning the word “uterus”** at least once. This is also, straight from the Knowledge Annals of Wikipedia.
*** That’s right folks, I don’t consider myself “grown up” yet.

6 thoughts on “TO MUM, WITH LOVE.

  1. Becca says:

    Your mum is gorrgeous!!! And I love that you have her feet. My feet are a mix of my mom and dad’s :p I think I have my mom’s ring finger though. Yes I study body parts :p

    I think any women who considers children as a possibility worries about infertility, not just you. In my case of neuroticism if my period doesn’t come, I think I’m pregnant – if it comes too often I think Im turning infertile lololol so yeah. No point worrying. They have technology for people who are having trouble anyway so there’s hope.

    1. I have bony long-toe’d feet! It’s insane – and looks a little like t-rex feets!

      Very true – and an amazing insight to how my mind works as well! You Mind-Reader-Lady, you! Thank goodness there’s technology there to lend a hand!

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