Can Any Mother Help Me?

I've been on holiday. To the Peak District. A longish drive away from the south of England where I live. Well, about five hours. I know that isn't going to impress anyone who lives in a 'big' country but it is a long way to us here on our small island.

Whilst I was on holiday I bought a book called 'Can Any Mother Help Me?' by Jenna Bailey. I remember hearing about this book at some point in the past, before Jessica and Georgina were born, before I had ever heard of blogging.

Back when I thought that there was something slightly odd or even sinister about communicating via the internet. I couldn't imagine why people would prefer to 'talk' to one another this way rather than face to face. Was it because they couldn't find friends or lovers in real life? It didn't seem like anything that I would ever be interested in. This was back in the days when I used my internet connection solely for online shopping, banking and the occasional e-mail. And the ubiquitous face.book naturally.

Anyhow, back to my book. In 1935, a young woman wrote a letter to a magazine asking the question that became the title of the book, 'can any mother help me?' As a result of her letter a group of women formed. They called themselves the Cooperative Correspondence Club (CCC). They created a private magazine in order to 'alleviate the boredom and limitations of their lives as wives or mothers.' They wrote articles about a variety of things that interested them - children, work, love, politics - and commented on each other's work. The magazine was circulated via the post. Although the women knew each other's real names and addresses due to the need for mailing, they often wrote under pseudonyms. A Priori, Country Mouse, Rusticana, Accidia, Ubique, Elektra.

I'm sure this parallel has already been drawn but their magazine from all that time ago reminded me of blogging. I thought about how I would have anticipated the arrival of that magazine if I had been one of the 'mothers' of this circle.

As it is I anticipate opening my reader, that flutter of interest, my little treat or moment to myself, usually at the end of the day. I want to find out how 'everyone' is, what you have been thinking about, what you are feeling. Those words that help me find strength, or bring tears, or make me smile.

I am so grateful that all of you are here, beyond words.

Whilst I was on holiday, I was also thinking a lot about motherhood. In my own inept little way. What type of mother I am. What has informed my parenting of my surviving baby and the baby that I lost. Who has inspired me. Who informs me. Who I want to emulate.

When I say motherhood here, I mean it in the broadest possible sense. I'm including fatherhood too. I hate the word parenthood and writing mother/father hood is going to drive me wild so from this point forward, please do read motherhood as a word encompassing fathers as well. There probably is a perfectly good word but I am either too illiterate to know it or too tired to dredge it up out of my addled old brain tonight.

I've been thinking about all the mothers whose words I read. Without wishing to sound creepy, I do think of you all a great deal. When there is no company to distract me, when Jessica is sleeping, when my husband is busy and doesn't want to chat. My thoughts return to you all here, in this little corner of blogland.

Whilst I was away on holiday, I was thinking about all of you. You have all taught me so much. About being a mother.

I was thinking about Monique, Norm and Samuel Marc. When I saw something beautiful on my potterings about, I thought of sweet Sam. I know that so many of us here were thinking of him. I imagine it almost like tiny flares of thought, of love, going up around the world. Sam, Sam, Sam.

I was thinking about, and praying for, Michele, Peter, Bobby and Maya. I was wondering if everything was alright with them. As Michele goes further on in her pregnancy than I was able to. I was hoping, praying and wishing that this precious family would be arriving safely at the threshold of the third trimester by the time I got back.

I was thinking of Sally, Simon and Hope as they approach these difficult days in mid-August. No more difficult than the rest of the year I'm sure but somehow I find that the date has made it harder, more inescapable.

I was so very, very lonely after the girls were born. So frightened. That my life had taken this completely unexpected, horrible, horrible turn. I didn't know what to do or who I could talk to about all these thoughts that just spun around and around in my poor, frazzled little brain.

I remember one of the unexpected things that terrified me after Georgina died was a deep seated belief that 'no one will ever understand me again, I will have to pretend. Always. Not even my own mother or sister can understand me now. Not my friends. Not anyone.'

Sadly, I have since discovered that so many people understand.
I wish you didn't. I wish that I had been alone in this.
But some secret, selfish part of me is glad that I am not.

In this place, I can tell you that I bought two first birthday cards at the supermarket yesterday. I wouldn't want anyone else to know that. They might find it incomprehensible. But I think you will know why I bought two. I think you will know why I almost wanted the lady at the checkout to ask WHY I was buying two. So I could lie. And tell her they were for my twin's first birthday party. Two little girls, you see. Just about to turn one.

I thought of all the mothers I have met here, in this strange and beautiful place.
Such a hateful place yet shot through with so much love. Like the crystalline parts of granite.

Those who have no living children in their arms. Mothers.

Those who have living children but still mourn for those other children. The ones who have slipped away from them. Mothers.

Those who parent children who are not their biological children but who are still very much their children. Mothers.

Those who lost their first born child. Those who lost their only child. Mothers.

Those whose children were born breathing. Mothers.

Those whose children never took a single breath. Who were born into silence. Mothers.

Those whose children were lost in the first trimester, in the second trimester, in the third trimester. Mothers.

Those who fall pregnant after a loss. Mothers.

Those whose children survived against the odds.
Those whose children did not survive against odds impossibly stacked against them.
Those whose children died in spite of the odds that should have been in their favour.
Mothers.

Those who long for children. Even when that longing is so cruelly unfulfilled. Mothers.

Those who mourn for children who have never existed on this earth and never will. Those who parent children who are dreams. But who are none the less real for all that. Mothers.

To try and tie this rather random post together, I'm going back to the book I mentioned at the beginning. At an early point in the CCC's history a member was proposed who had no children. She was rejected on the basis that she was not a mother. She was 30, she had been married for four years.
I found myself thinking. But was she a mother?
A thought that would have never occurred to me a couple of years ago.
Back then, it was a binary function. You are a mother, defined by having children. Living children. Or you aren't.
But it isn't that simple. Nothing is ever, ever that simple.
They said that she wasn't a mother.
Was she one of 'my mothers'? Was she a mother like me?

I wouldn't have missed any of you mothers, or fathers, for the world.
I wouldn't have missed hearing what you have said. I want to hear what you will say.
I am so sorry to find you here. In this place.
Where I find so much comfort and friendship.
But also a place I wish that nobody ever had need of.
Thank you to all the mothers and fathers who share of themselves so generously.
Thank you for your help in a dark, dark time.