Mothering Sunday: it was an opportunity to gather around the nine women in our two families that go back three generations and now followed by another two.
We remembered and talked about our Great Grandmothers who sat in rocking chairs and cradled newborns to sleep;
Our Grandmothers who listen while younger generations sound off against the world;
Our Mothers old and young, attentive and there
even when you don’t want them to be; and
Our Indulgent aunts with whom we play.
We reminisced, and toasted the many strong women in our lives.It was a lunch made with love by all, food with memories and meaning.
We laughed at our foibles, and grimaced at our fiery moments.Sunshine flooded across the veranda, highlighting small boys climbing over chairs and balancing on tables.
Mothering is like that: a balance, not always even, easily tipped in another direction but naturally veering towards the centre.
We don’t always get it right, occasionally mis-manage the situation but we never stop caring. As my 100 year old Granny, once said, ‘ I still worry over my daughters’.