Mother

A treatise on being a boy.

My mother is a fine woman. She birthed me, cared for me for longer than any nurse could. And, in there somewhere the boy took on the mother as his foot person - waiting hand and foot upon my needs. This, I have discovered, has followed me into much of the rest of my life - looking always towards a woman to assuage my fears - comfort my ill-feeling and generally look after me. I remember, years later after leaving home, I would return - mother would always have a meal ready, always my bed prepared as if I had never left. And even now when I arrive at home with my three children - the same reception greets me. I wonder all these years when she was not able to be present at christmas time - if this was her only resistance to being expected to deliver on the boys demands - and I mean also, all the men in the house, sitting around drinking beer - To basically disappear for want of some semblance of survival really. I judged her back then for disappearing. But how do mothers say no to their sons? How do they give the boy a more true and real sense that the world does not revolve around them and never will? An ode to my mother - bless her - for tolerating, nay loving my boy - even when it overwhelmed her. And now as I overwhelm the women in my life I am beginning to realise how I am and must be my own mother - in myself there is the man who must take over from this boy - hold him tight - let him know that this feeling too shall pass - and that the world need him too - requires him to hold that emotion, make dinner, put the children to bed, listen attentively to his wife and let her know he needs no mother from her.