This was original posted on facebook by Bunmi Zalob titled Dear oprah…No
i loved it so much i wanted to post it here for others to read. its in regard’s to Oprah’s Show this week on motherhood….
I saw a preview for your show about Motherhood last week and knew instantly that I wouldn’t be watching. Even though an acquaintance of mine who I like quite a bit made a cameo, the show’s slant left me feeling sad. It seems as if the new national pastime isn’t baseball or any sport for that matter, it’s the game of chipping the beauty, the wonder away from the calling of motherhood.
We’re in a day when bitching about your kids online, if you do it regularly enough, can be called a job. I understand the entertainment value of reading about a crazy day one can relate to but have a sneaking suspicion that we are quickly painting a collective caricature of who and what a mother is that is unsightly to say the least.
Oprah, I have bad days. Days of unrelenting noise, piles of unwashed clothes, unfinished work, and child tantrums but in no way do I generalize those moments to encompass who I am as a mother and how this calling has changed me at the core. Every day the mystery of life is at my feet and in my arms drinking from my soul and replenishing it at the same time. A new empathy for people from all walks of life has entered my consciousness by being the caretaker of just one of the world’s citizens. I’ve experienced the look of knowing from women I may never speak to on the playground and while pumping gas, because as we lock eyes and see the kids jumping up and down in the backseat, we know each other’s entire lives.
Today you did a show that wasn’t just ordinary, in my opinion, it perpetuated a lie amongst not only the community of mothers, but the world. We’re forgetting how important we are. We’re forgetting who we are; the beginning of life, the first set of eyes and ears for a human being. We’ve traded laughs for depth and called it even.
I was talking to a friend of mine and asking myself why this was happening. Well, the commercials that she said aired during your show offer clues. It’s hard to sell cosmetic surgery and promises of a magazine’s version of beauty to a woman who knows she’s enough. It’s hard to convince her to fill her garage with knick nacks and her life with toys she’ll never use if she thinks life is sweet. And it’s especially hard to get her to iron or fill the wrinkles in her face if she’s proud of the years that brought them on.
Some may have forgotten who we are, but I haven’t nor will I let my daughter should she choose to be a mother one day. Should she choose to stroke and comfort the spirit of another I’ll tell her that she’s everything, everyone to that child. She’s not her hair, her stomach, her car, her clothes, her job, or her zip code. She’s not even her stroller.
I’m going to tell her that the man or woman she is pulling out of a clumsy, giggling, stinky, sweet, petulant, thankful, thankless little body may never understand the nights she spent wondering, hoping, crying, and staring into their face wishing for them the whole world and none of it at all, but she’ll remember and regret none of it. For sure I’ll tell her that she’ll be amazed at her own intuition and the mama bear that lurks beneath demure smiles.
She’ll know that what she is doesn’t make sense, it isn’t right, wrong, fair or special; those are words that humans use. We’re mothers.
There will be bad days and good days, but they’ll all be the most important day in that child’s life and in hers. I’ll tell her that the calling she’s stepped into will lead her to secrets that wise men spend their whole lives meditating and pouring over ancient texts to uncover; that she’s fallen into a valley of a love so intense that it will warm and burn her at the same time.
That’s a mother.