I once had a large dog who had no idea why a mockingbird was terrorizing him by repeatedly swooping down and pecking his backside as if he were made of chicken feed. Since I was attached to the dog by his leash, I, too, was alarmed by the tiny gray bird’s tenacious attempts to pluck out the golden hairs on my dog’s rear.
My husband sometimes refers to me as a mama bear. When he does, I know he’s describing the fierce protective instinct mothers have to shield their young. While I love the ferocity a bear conjures, I see motherhood as more of a mockingbird experience.
As a native Floridian, the Northern Mockingbird is as familiar as palm trees, bare feet, and humidity. As far as fowl go, they are pretty plain gray birds with a pale underside, not nearly as flashy as the majestic red cardinal, vivid blue jay, or the teetering pink flamingo. Yet, like mothers, who are often venerated on holidays like Mother’s Day but receive little day-to-day practical support, you would be wrong to underestimate the mockingbird.
Highly territorial, mockingbirds are bold defenders of their young. Being a mother affords many opportunities to be brave. Raising children is an act of hope in a world that often seems more frightful than fantastical. Most of the work we do is unremarkable in our culture – as plain as a peanut butter sandwich on white bread. Laundry, lunches, and last-minute school projects aren’t notable in a society fixated on achievement and accolades. Those things are considered more boring than brave. Yet showing up for others consistently, meaningfully, and often, sacrificially is a defiant act of courage in a world that encourages self-centeredness.
Fully embracing the mundanity of my middle-aged life, I watched a documentary about an octopus. I won’t get into the details because you too may be interested in octopi documentaries so I don’t want to spoil anything. Yet one of the most interesting things I learned is that after an octopus lays her eggs, she quits eating and wastes away. By the time the eggs hatch, she dies. It’s like a Disney movie where the mom always dies and there’s an orphan having a coming of age adventure with lots of catchy songs that get stuck in your head.
I am in the “letting go” years of motherhood. I know Alzheimer’s disease is considered the long-goodbye, but having teenagers feels as much so. Except instead of forgetting precious memories, I am flooded with them: story times at the library, field trips to the zoo, class parties, countless baseball games, first dances, and ordinary moments that have aged into extraordinary memories.