Mother's Day is for the Birds

When I gave birth to my child, I stopped sleeping. Grief was my undoing. Not only did I have some post-partum depression, but my dog died a month later, my grandmother died two weeks after that, my husband lost his job, and then my father-in-law died, all in the short span of about seven months. I was also starting a new job and I had to quit nursing cold turkey so I could leave Dad #2’s funeral early to go home and teach.

A once-prolific poet, I was writing nothing. Five years later, when I was still struggling with insomnia, a good therapist told me (in our first session) that I needed to either join a punk rock band or start writing poetry again. Show me an insomniac, he said, and I’ll show you a blocked artist.

I did write one poem shortly after giving birth. It won first place in City Paper’s poetry contest in 2000, when Serena was one and a half.

Motherbirds

They say catbirds and mockingbirds
are different,
but a baby is a baby.
One has just fallen from the sky during a lesson.
The dogs think this is good fortune,
having gnawed their bones to bits
and tired of my shoe.
I drop a load of laundry on the steps
when the motherbird shrills.
It is her panicked voice I hear over the dryer—
her wail above the siren, the barking.
There’s a baby in the well!
The tiny bird is under the puppy’s paw,
and a crowd has gathered:
house martins on the cable wire,
finches on the phone line,
starlings on the blue spruce.
A stray cardinal looks on from the trellis.
I chase the dogs inside, swoop up the cat,
and, in the language of frantic charades,
try to persuade the parents it’s safe.
While I shower, my baby calls.
It is her voice I hear
over the helicopter, the barking,
the mourning doves on the sill.
It is her sleepy cry
that beckons the motherbirds.

I am not sure why I equate mothers with birds, but that’s the way it’s always been. In 2012, when I was still agile enough with my fingers and voice to play and sing (not well, but good enough), I wrote a song about Mother’s Day, and it also had birds.

Anna Jarvis, original founder of Mother’s Day, did not intend for this commemoration to become a Hallmark holiday. Everyone profited from the day except for her. She even tried to take it back from the government because of its commercialization. (We see how successful that was!)

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Mother’s Day isn’t a happy time for a lot of people. Narcissists, for example, don’t suddenly embody motherhood when they give birth. Many of us are not cut out for it. I salute the fish, cat, dog, reptile, and bird moms for making the right decision. And some want to be moms but can’t; I hope they all find someone to bathe in that motherly affection.

Me? I’m undoubtedly lucky: A woman who wanted to be a mother, who had the empathy and kindness necessary to mother, became mine.

I learned from the best, and, judging from Serena Joy’s latest post, I think I’ve passed along what I’ve learned, despite having almost driven out of the Target parking lot before putting my four-year-old child in the car.

We are all someone’s children, and we deserve to be treated with dignity, compassion, and kindness—and not just from our mothers.

We need to keep fighting to restore empathy in what might be the most difficult time of the lives of those who respect human rights.