Three Generations of Mothers

As Mother’s Day approaches, I find myself reading some of the articles I wrote about motherhood. Reading my past articles helps me feel more appreciative not only of my mother but of my wife and my two daughters.

Mothers are super special in many ways. Only mothers can experience the joy and the pain of giving birth. Only mothers can get to nurse and bond with a baby early in the baby’s life. Only mothers can give and bring life. Only mothers have these gifts and privileges.

I understand the unique and special role that a mother plays in society. I understand why it is said that a woman achieves her total fulfillment when she becomes a mother. I understand the anguish that a mother experiences when a baby gets sick. I understand the disappointment that a mother feels when a child does not meet her expectations. I understand the feeling of frustration of a mother when she thinks she is a failure as a ‘perfect’ mother.

I understand these roller-coaster feelings because being a mother is hard work. I saw this every day in my mother. She worked hard as a public school teacher and later as a supervisor to get us through the challenges of surviving. She made sure that we were not deprived of the basic things in life. Our safety and education were on top of her priorities. She might have been upset or hurt whenever we ignored her advice, but at the end of the day she was not punitive but understanding. I learned early on in my life that her children’s happiness was also her happiness.

My mother was tough but not lacking in empathy. As a supervisor, she was strict with her teachers. I heard from relatives how she would not hesitate to pick up a fight with her classmates at Colegio de Sta. Isabel (now Universidad de Sta. Isabel), especially when she knew she was right. Later, I discovered that behind her pugnacious character was a deep concern for the well-being of other people, most specially the poor and the needy.

Giving alms to the poor was my mother’s favorite act of charity. With my activist orientation, I did not agree with her brand of helping the poor. But she was generous to a fault – typical of a religious and compassionate woman who just wanted to help a person in need.

Admittedly, when I was growing up and even as an adult, I never had the chance to share my feelings with my mother. In fact, I never really thanked her for everything she did for me. Not that I did not want to. But I just did not feel the need to express it. It was as if I was socialized to keep my feelings to myself, part of the cultural stereotype of the heroic male – independent, self-reliant, and macho. But I was never emotionally distant from her. Deep inside me, I was always grateful for her support, advice, concern, sacrifices, and love.

My mother wanted very much to have a daughter. She wanted a girl who would grow up to become a mother like herself, and experience the joy, meaning, and wonders of motherhood. But fate was not on her side. She had four boys instead. She even adopted a baby girl. Unfortunately, and after a few months of enjoying the baby, the biological mother took the baby back. I had never seen my mother feel so sad. But fate has a strange way of making one’s desire come true.

In some of my quiet moments, I would like to think that my mother’s disappointment in not having a girl has been compensated by my wife and two daughters who have all turned out to be loving mothers themselves. How I wish I could pick up the phone and call my mother in the great beyond and tell her that her desire to have her own daughter now lives in her two granddaughters and their mother.

My mother would be happy to know that my wife belongs to that generation of women whose love for the marginalized is beyond reproach. Her love for our daughters unquestionably reflects her own upbringing. She is generous and leads a life that centers on what is good for the family. She is the most family-centered person I know and a mother who puts the interest of our daughters and her grandchildren above everything else.

Now that my two daughters have their own children, I am overjoyed with how they have become hands-on mothers. They have naturally developed some impeccable skills in bathing their children, teaching them how to brush their teeth, reading to them before they go to sleep, playing and praying with them. They surround their children with books and counsel them basic good manners and right conduct. They involve them with different artistic, physical, and intellectual activities. They bond with their children while at the same time having fun. They also have gotten from their mom’s genes the importance of cleanliness, discipline, and consistency.

I am astounded when I see my grandchildren enjoy watching TV and build various figures from Lego blocks that look amazingly intricate. At a very young age, they can already communicate what they want and be stubbornly demanding at times. Theirs is a different world from the world I grew up in. I am, however, grateful that my daughters can still discipline them and remain resolute, while at the same time shower them with love.

Describing a mother’s love is virtually difficult. I’ve learned this from my mother and from my wife, and now from my daughters. There is no word to really describe it. If there are words to describe it, they are never enough. Most people will never understand the feelings that a mother has for her children unless they become mothers themselves. A mother’s love can only be understood by those who experience motherhood. One must be a mother to give this kind of love.

I often get a twinge of sadness during Mother’s Day because I still miss my mother who died 25 years ago. But this year is different. I realize I have with me three great mothers – my wife and my two daughters – from whom I see the love of my mother. These are three generations of women, of mothers who will remain special to me.