When I started this blog two years ago I jokingly wrote that life after children was going to be all about me.  It is more about me; I now use a good (read expensive) hairdresser, treat myself to manicures and pedicures, and have even indulged in purchases of jewelry and extravagant perfume (made in Egypt from pure oils - who could resist the fragrance of the Pharoahs?)

But life now isn’t all about me.  I may be finished raising my children, but I’m not finished thinking about them, worrying about them, and talking about them.  Children are one of the initial things women talk about when we first meet, and they continue to be a primary topic of our conversations. 

My mid twenties to early fifties were spent raising children.  My three daughters were my main focus for twenty six years; being their mother was the major role in my life.  That phase of my life is over.

Life after raising children is determining what my function as a mother is now.  It’s about negotiating new relationships with my adult children and, believe me, this is as difficult a phase as any other stage of parenting.

Life after raising children is about discovering who I am as a woman.  For most of my adult life I defined myself as Alex’s, Charley’s and Jordyn’s mother.  I was actively engaged in the physical, mental and emotional aspects of raising children; my dreams and aspirations were naturally on the back burner. It feels very strange to now be focusing on myself:  Where do I want to go?  What do I want to do?  I am following a dream I didn’t fulfill before I had children - to travel around the world.  I am following a passion that was put on hold, not because of children, but because life got in the way - teaching.  I am pursuing a new passion -writing, and I have embarked on something I have wanted to do for quite awhile now but could not afford - a master’s degree.

Life after children at the moment is mainly focused on completing this MA in Professional Writing and establishing myself as a writer.  Yet even in this most personal area where I am free to be whoever I want to be I return to that quintessential role.   When I had to come up with a brand name that describes me and my writing I asked myself the elemental human questions:  Who am I?  What defines me?  The answers were easy - I am a teacher, a writer, a feminist, a traveller.  However, my heart and my pen kept going back to the most important role in my life - being my children’s mother.  In the end I decided on an acronym of ‘mother’ (in a slightly unconventional form) with nouns describing how I - or others - see me.

So, although this blog is about my life after raising children, it is not only about me.  I cannot resist talking about my children, indulging in the occasional bout of ‘mama bragging’, or referring to the most sacred of all roles - motherhood.

On that note I would like to share an excerpt on motherhood from my book.

Motherhood

What is it, what does it really mean?

It’s guilt; plain old Judeo-Christian, woman, mother-guilt! Did I say the wrong thing?

Did I do the wrong thing?

Have I psychologically scarred them for life?

It’s fear; fear of making mistakes, fear of saying the wrong thing, of doing the wrong thing.

It’s that cold, tight feeling in your stomach when you lose sight of your child in a crowded place.

It’s that horrible, unshakeable fear that something unthinkable will happen to one of your children.

It’s pain; gut wrenching, breath taking, heart breaking pain.

It’s watching your children stumble and fall.

It’s not being able to give your children everything you want to give them.

It’s watching your children grow away from you.

It’s every stubbed toe, every scraped knee, every hurt feeling, and every broken heart.

It’s the pain of seeing your child’s pain.

It’s a pain that only gets worse as they get older. When they were little and they hurt themselves I would tell my children to go get the “bobo basket”. I would clean the “bobo”, lovingly apply a band aid and tenderly give them that “special mommy kiss”, the kiss that always made everything better. When they got older and other children wouldn’t play with them, when they were struggling to master something new and losing confidence in themselves, when a boy had broken their hearts, my mommy kiss lost its magic - I couldn’t kiss those hurts away. And every time I witness my children’s pain it tears another hole in my heart.

It’s joy; pure, unadulterated joy!

It’s when your baby finishes nursing, pulls away from your breast, sighs with satisfaction and lays her head so trustingly against your body.

It’s when your toddler wraps her arms around your legs and chirps “I lub you mommy!”

It’s your child’s small face pressed close to yours, her eyelashes gently brushing your cheek as she gives you “butterfly kisses”.

It’s your child standing tall and straight in front of you, her hands behind her back. With a flourish worthy of Houdini himself she whips her hands from behind her and proudly presents you with her latest work of art, which you accept with all the fanfare it deserves and vow to keep forever!

It’s when your preteen, who is ‘oh too cool to hang with her mom anymore’, slips her hand in yours and squeezes it tightly – in public!

It’s when your teenager actually thanks you for caring enough to give her boundaries – and for grounding her when she oversteps them!

It’s your adult child coming to your rescue, making you feel worthy and loved.