Sons are tied to their mothers, fathers to their daughters. We’ve heard this saying so many times that it has seeped into our subconscious, a given that we grow up with. “You’ll see how attached sons are to their mothers,” people told me (while trying to persuade me to have a daughter too, but that’s another story). Honestly, I haven’t noticed that they were any more attached to me than girls their age were to their own mothers. In fact, the two of them differed more in how they showed affection than I ever noticed any difference between the sexes. But that old saying seemed so true to me and I tried to remember why. And then all those mothers from old songs and stories came back to me. Or at least the outlines of those mothers. Have a think about it. What kind of women were they, and what is it that all those sons admire?
It’s always an ode to a mother’s modesty, devotion, unconditional love and sacrifice. It’s always the mother who worries and watches over everything, full of understanding, while the faithful wife is off being wild somewhere. You know the sort of thing: “Listen, mother, to my song,” “the old mother talks to four walls,” “mother will weep and you will curse me”… And that’s very often how it is in real life too. We remember our grandmothers and mothers by what they did for us, quietly, ready to sacrifice themselves for the whole family. Mothers who are the only ones waiting up for their children to come home, mothers who don’t sleep because the children kick off their blankets, who sew and get up before everyone else to whip up a mountain of lokum. All of that is undeniably true and lovely. But, but, but… Who were those women? There’s no way there was nothing in them worth admiring except endless giving.
They say that when babies start throwing things, they’re actually learning that the world exists beyond them too. It seems to me that’s a lesson we never fully learn. We’re all the main characters in our own lives and we often think that others exist only to help and push us along the path to a happy ending. The truth is that no one is more called upon to play this role than parents. But all characters are little universes with their own feelings, dreams and peculiarities.
When I remember myself as a child and how I saw my mum, I remember that I enjoyed it most when she let me imitate her. Putting on her sandals and a dress that was too long for me. Playing with her little mirror and making her tell me over and over how she bought it on holiday. How we look at black-and-white photographs and she tells me about the people in them, about her friendships and dreams when she was at secondary school. Telling me which book she has in her hand. And now I remember with crystal clarity that feeling of excitement at hearing about her life, her longings and wishes beyond the role of mum.
I would love my sons to see me beyond the role of the mum who’s there to cook, worry and help. What I love most is when they tell me they’ve seen something they think I’d like, when they ask to talk about life outside the home, when they want to know exactly what I do and who my favourite person at work is. The time when my services will no longer be needed is very close. What comes after that? Well, I hope that after that we’ll still spend time together because we enjoy talking, because we find each other interesting and because love is strong and above all else. And that, if they’ve learned that parents have a personality and feelings beyond that role too, they’ll learn to listen to the people around them. To be aware that no one in this world exists solely for them. And finally, to demand that no one dehumanises them and reduces them to a single role.
There’s a trend, especially on social media. A trick for collecting likes. A portrait of an old woman, you can’t tell whether she’s 50 or 70 because a hard life has taken its toll. And a caption about a mother who didn’t eat so her children could have more. Or who cut up her own clothes to sew extra dresses for her children. With the wistful line “Ah, those were mothers.” No, they weren’t — the people who create such posts are selfish and self-absorbed. Bread should be divided into as many pieces as there are people at the table. Food is for the mother and the father just as much as for the children. It’s an incomparably better lesson to learn to be supportive and to share than to expect someone’s — in this case, needless — sacrifice.
Even though it sounds funny, it starts there. So mothers like to eat their food cold, when in fact it’s because they’re busy serving everyone else at the table. They don’t like eating the drumsticks, they like whatever’s left over. The best bit of cake is the last piece, so it doesn’t go to waste. We teach children to serve other children when they’re eating something. Why don’t we teach them the same for the people they live with? It doesn’t mean you love them any less if you teach them that your wishes and needs exist too and that food should be shared. Like everything in life.
As I write this, I’m trying to remember what my mum’s favourite dish is. And how often she made it. She knows my sister’s, my dad’s and her own without having to think about it.
