The Seduction of Motherhood

MOTHERHOOD seduced me before I was a teenager. I knew I wanted to be a mother.

I practised mothering on the other children in my community, dreamed of having children, and wanted to leave a stamp on the world. I did not know then nor did I understand all the implications of motherhood, that my role was not to put a stamp on this human being I birthed, but rather to learn the lesson the child brings. Every child has an important lesson to teach that its mother needs to learn and every mother has a lesson to teach her child: How the fragrance of compassion can restore the downtrodden, and how confidence can repair the sight of the blind.

Motherhood is not a nambypamby emotion. It is the mother of all poems; it is the bass in reggae, the survival instincts in dancehall, the emergence of land from volcano, and the assurance of a people who survived slavery.

Motherhood is getting your hands so dirty they can never be clean again; they will never be the same hands again and you will never be the same you again. Motherhood is the ingenuous taste of ackee and salt fish, the promise of bougainvillea, the glory of yellow yam, the dance of the hummingbird, the strength of Lignum Vitae, and the nutrients of banana.

Motherhood is not vain or pompous; it raises no flag to erect barriers; it is an open field, endless, expansive brave, daring and celebratory.

Motherhood is rolling up your sleeves, bending your back and leaning into the hard work that must be done.

Motherhood tastes like guava jam in your mouth, smells like pork jerking, sounds live waves splashing rocks, feels like a hibiscus’ petal and intuits gratitude.

Motherhood assures us that there will be a tomorrow and Jamaica will continue to produce greatness.