Don’t mess with my baby! My October newsletter about Mama Bears and motherhood

Today was supposed to be a writing day. I have two chapters left in my WIP, and one of them is going to be very, very hard to write—gruesome, is probably the right word—so I’ve been procrastinating. Until today. I had cleared my calendar, done some pep-talking along the lines of “Enough, already! Get it done.” And then the phone rang.

The moment I heard who it was, and how shattered this child of mine was, writing went out the window. Forget about dire death in medieval Spain, I had a baby to comfort. My baby is an adult—has been an adult for many years. And yet, when things go pear-shaped, I’m the one my baby calls. Because that’s what mothers excel at—being there when they are needed.

Mothers listen. They hug and hold. They make tea and serve cream cakes (I do at least), they make sure their children know they are not alone. Do not fear, Mamma is here. And this Mamma Bear can be very, very protective, to the point of engaging in fantasies about just how to retaliate against the arse who hurt my baby.

Obviously, adult children have to fight their own battles. Super Mamma cannot pull on tights and cape and fly off to whack Stupid Person over the head. Besides, I don’t hold with whacking people over the head. Well, okay: maybe sometimes. Like today.

When I was a child, the single most important person in the universe was my mother. I can still remember when I, at the age of six or so, realised that people DIED, and that usually, old people died before young people, so my Mamma, who was pretty old, was going to DIE. Soon!

My mother told me that
a) she wasn’t all that old (she’d have been thirtyish at the time)
b) she wasn’t planning on dying yet.
Because I was only six, I found that reassuring: Mamma had told me she wasn’t about to die, so she wouldn’t. I had yet to discover that sometimes, life throws us curve balls and people do die—even if they haven’t planned on it.

Years passed, and suddenly I was a teenager, and my mother was no longer the single most important person in the universe. I’m not actually sure who was—I recall my teenage years as difficult, years when I tried very, very hard to fit in but rarely did. But when I needed it, my mother was there with a hug, with advice. Except that as any teenager will tell you, teenage-land is a very, very weird place that few adults know how to navigate. Still: she tried. I can still recall, though, how sad she looked when we walked by my high school a few years later and she asked me if I missed it. I turned to her and said. “Miss it? I hated it!” Okay, a slight exaggeration. I didn’t hate it EVERY day, just most days.

When children become adults, parents become degraded from the suns they orbit around to satellite moons. As it should be.  They start families of their own, sort most of their problems on their own, but now and then (like today) they still need their mothers to be their safe haven.

At some point, though, the relationship shifts. Suddenly, it’s the adult child that has to take care of the parent. Not an easy transition—the parent is, after all, still the parent. And even when I was doing my mother’s tax returns, when I was planning her doctor’s visits and sorting through her mail, there were moments when I needed her to be Mamma, the person who always had my corner. Always. And who wasn’t planning on dying yet. Except she did. Die, that is.

Today, my child called and I let everything else go to help. Tomorrow, it might be me calling for help—and I know my babies will be there for me.

Ultimately, this is what life is about: raising a new generation that can raise the next generation. Teaching children right from wrong, teaching them to be good, caring people, people you can be proud of. I am inordinately proud of my children—they are the best thing I have done in my life.

And when someone is mean to them, this sixty-plus lady is fully prepared to don those tights and grab a frying pan to whack some sense into the idiot in question.

Well, dear peeps, this ended up being a somewhat unusual newsletter—a personal reflection on motherhood rather than on writing and books.

But now, I must get back to my gruesome scene – The Queen of Shadows is almost done and is about to meet my editor (gulp).

Wishing you all a good October – and should any of you want to share some thoughts about mothers, I am all ears!