It's 12:20. I just washed the dishes we ate with the kids, and once again the day slipped away from me. It's already late, and the celebration has passed. So I'll talk about Mother's Nights. From that first one when you hold them fresh and warm in your arms. Babies who appeared in the middle of the night under the relentless light of the operating room and illuminated your life. It was night all three times. Before dawn.
After those first nights, when you tiptoe into their room like a thief to see if they are breathing, to watch them as they are curled up on their stomachs. To feed them on German schedules trying not to wake the others, to change diapers in the dark, your hands know, your fingers know, blindly.
and then some nights with fevers, thermometers, compresses, crying. hospitals, IVs, discharges.
and the other ones, the everyday ones, with songs, fairy tales, tell me another one, tell me. another one, Mama, another one. and for your eyes to close, to fall asleep before them, but to talk about \u2018the inn of the apple tree that had a band of excursionists\u2019 with your eyes closed. the mouth knows it, the tongue knows it, they know it by heart, like water.
Forget those nights when they all come to bed, one by one, with their stuffed animals, and you wake up all contorted with someone's hand in your nose and someone else's foot on your head.
And then, we were late again and I have a test. Come on, tell me, tell me. The dative, how does it decline, my child? The vine, of the vine, the...? Come on, we've nearly made it to morning. Eh, no, you don't remember the Edict of Milan? How will you write tomorrow? Come on, let's do another one. We won't wake up in the morning.
And then, a hug with the clock. Haven't you come back yet? But we didn't say that. But why don't you pick it up, for God's sake. Have you been drinking? Sit down, let me make you a coffee. But what did you drink, my child? Five in the morning. Ugh, everything is spinning.
And later some strange noises. You're not sleeping? Are you crying? Why, my little bird? Do you want to talk? No? Okay. And you hear the crying from the next room. It will pass, my daughter, it will pass, my son. The sun will rise and everything will be okay. You say it to yourself.
And with these things, the nights pass, which would be colorless without all these things that children give to the flow of life.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mother's Day again (that's all I had) <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n The weakness in me <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n <\/strong>There are times in therapy when I hear children \u2013 children from 20 to 70 years old \u2013 and I want to teleport and go find their mothers and just strangle them, beat them up, grab them by the shoulders, shake them and yell, , <\/p>\n\n\n\n Forgive them.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n The day has come, take the big step.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Find a corner to fit yourselves in too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Forgive your mothers. Yes, those hysterical, irrational, \"I know everything\" types, the narcissistic, foolish, silly, pushy, dramatic, conceited, strict, cold, forgetful, tired, depressed ones, the \"you are my trophy\" types, the \"it's for your own good\" ones... Overcome them by forgiving the good cooks, the \"whatever you want, my master or my princess\" types, the sacrificing mothers, the multi-tool mothers, the insurmountable, the beautiful, flawless, dazzling, educated ones...<\/p>\n\n\n\n A man once asked me, \u201cAnd why should I do that? I don't need it. My mother, I don't care about her anymore.\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A mother who was indifferent doesn't exist. She is there, in the relationships you didn't make, in the relationships you torpedoed without reason, in your loneliness, in your restlessness, in your shyness, in your depression, in your low self-esteem, in your hysteria, in your nightmares and your terror. Not to mention the way you raise your own children or those you hurt unintentionally. .<\/p>\n\n\n\n The mother you've forgiven will give you the freedom to become whatever you dream of.<\/p>\n\n\n\n After all, consider that the little one in the photo is none other than your mother a few years ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n <\/p>\n\n\n\n I often think about what life would be like if I wasn't called to get up at 6 to make breakfast, to heat<\/p>","protected":false},"author":6,"featured_media":18642,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-18641","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/enamono.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18641","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/enamono.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/enamono.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/enamono.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/6"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/enamono.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18641"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/enamono.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18641\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18646,"href":"https:\/\/enamono.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18641\/revisions\/18646"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/enamono.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/18642"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/enamono.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18641"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/enamono.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18641"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/enamono.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18641"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
I loved seashells, starry skies, lying on the sand, and waking up by the sea. I loved stories, poems, and music. I cared about people and their passions, and I had an endless curiosity about the mystery of life. I don't know if I had any other resources for this journey of motherhood, and you will judge with all strictness if they were enough. But this is what I had \u2013 along with a love for each of you individually \u2013 and this is what I tried to give you with all my imperfections, my shortcomings, and my struggles. Today is that day.
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat are you doing, my lady, to your child?\u201c
and then I think that they too were once girls, innocent little girls with pigtails and flowery skirts.
girls raised by other mothers, who landed in their roles with shortcomings, weaknesses, unfulfilled dreams, myths of selflessness, thrown into the arena without knowledge, with only an unrefined and nebulous instinct.
And amidst the whirlwind of their youth, among expenses that pile up, dirty dishes, pots that need to be cooked in, spouses sometimes present but often absent, fragile relationships, demanding bosses, dancing hormones, legitimate ambitions, dreams of creation, insomnia, undefined and often critical grandparents, \u201ccome on, they know better,\u201d heavy stereotypes, and an internal hunt for adequacy, \u201cyou didn't make it again, my little juggler,\u201d a childish voice shouts \u201cMAMA.\u201d.
Mom, so yesterday's girl. Mom nurse, mom doctor, mom electrician, mom cook, mom clock, mom taxi driver, mom teacher, mom ironer, mom housekeeper, mom psychologist, mom referee, mom magician, mom listener,
Mom, wife, mom, mistress, mom, fairy tale, song, story.
and then silence. everyone fell asleep.
And the voice begins. You didn't make it, because you spoke like that, but you curse your child, you hit him, you didn't manage, what kind of mother are you? What kind of mother am I? I don't know. The bitch never says how much you managed, never! And so you fall asleep in guilt this night. Oh, if only I could wake up a little earlier to make the little pot for school. Will you make them pasta again? Leave me alone. .
Leave me. Leave me here to grow old with my mistakes that are partying in my head, with my anxiety that you're okay, with my powerlessness to turn back time and do it differently, with my guilt for those moments when my rotten character betrayed me and to console myself that you will forgive me if you kept those shells we collected, the days I used to comb your hair without hurting you, the hours I cheered for you at basketball games, the nights I used to sing to you to sleep, the moments you felt I would always be there no matter what you did, the time I set boundaries for you with great personal pain so you could pull yourself together, the spinach pies I carried as I boarded the plane I fear so much, the endless vines, of the vineyard, the ... {say what it is} and the when the Treaty of S\u00e8vres happened and for all that you don't know and perhaps will never learn that made up the fabric of a mom who was once a girl like you, my daughter, or a small child like you, my son.
So, forgive us, given the day, and make room in your own lives for the unnecessary baggage that all the mothers of the ages have loaded you with.<\/p>\n\n\n\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/enamono.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/05\/IMG_5423-1-610x800.jpeg\")
<\/figure>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"