I’m a mother.
Motherhood changes your life. Some of the ways are obvious, others not as much. Last night I had a dream about a child who was engaged in self-mutilation. In the middle of it, I asked Loki to stop it.
“Why? It’s an initiation.”
“Because he’s a child and I’m a mother and I can’t abide it.”
Everything stopped when I said those words. Stopped still as death while He waited for me to Get It. The years between my rape and my son’s birth were more than a little mad, and I don’t talk about it much, because it almost feels as if it happened to someone else. I’ve always wondered how and why I bear no physical scars from that time in my life.
“You were supposed to be Mine then, but you asked to be a mother.”
“I did, and everything stopped. It all stopped with [my child].”
“I’ve always given you what you wanted.” He’s not exaggerating. Sixteen years ago, I put my hand on my best friend’s very pregnant belly, wishing I might have a child of my own, and nine months later, my child was here. I nearly bled to death during the birth.
“It would’ve been a madness initiation then. It turned to illness.”
I grew very quiet then, and indeed, I’ve been very quiet all day, just mulling that over. Did I change my wyrd in asking for my child? Did I trade one form of illness for another? Have I judged people who go the Madness road harshly because it was my perception that I ‘just got better?’
In the US, we as a culture attribute most of our good fortune to our own hard work. The unlucky aren’t working hard enough or whatever BS we tell ourselves to feel better about not giving a rat’s ass. And there’s an awful lot that’s determined by luck – race, gender, sexual orientation, whether or not your physical body lines up much (or at all) with the astral one.
But my child is a gift, and one that I can never thank them enough for, because I wouldn’t have learned or grown in the ways that are meaningful to me without that impetus, that incredible need to take care of him.