Mothering

I have been trying to find the words to write to describe mothering - my journey raising a black boy in present America.

I am the most conscious, critical and uncertain about my role as mother more than any other aspect in my life. I have never wanted to “get it right” as much as I do with motherhood. I am not the perfect mom but I try my best, the best I can.

Motherhood is everything I thought it would be and everything I never knew it was. It is chaotic and loud and unconditional and forgiving. All and all it is humbling. Indescribable, really. Raising a child to be a respectable, courageously bold, accountable and kind presence in this world is the most significant task that I will ever be given. And not to mention, the pressure it brings (probably self-imposed, but it’s there - heavy and present). The year I became pregnant was turbulent and the pressure hasn’t let up since (one day I’ll share the full story).

I pray so desperately for my boy’s pure gentleness, his happiness, and his free spirit. I pray so desperately that he feels seen by me and those who are worthy of him. I pray he knows love.

I pray that he understands all that I do is for him, and that I always have his best interest. I pray that he knows how much I want to make him proud and do my very best for him.

Seventy percent of the time, I am exhausted from mothering. Then there’s the 30%, where I take in the puzzle piecing moments, soak in our Friday movie nights, listen to him spell out victory while dancing to Anthony Brown and group therAPy’s I Got That song or simply marvel at his wonderment.

This is mothering. It’s a lot of what I never imagined. It’s not pretty. It’s not ugly.

It’s the state of being a lot of the things.

So to the mothers, mamas, mommies and mom-spirited, may you feel seen for your effort to do your best regardless of your circumstances. And may you be the very blessing that you pray over your children.

Happy Mother’s Day.