12/04/2023
It takes a village, they say.
To raise a child, it takes a village.
And I think about this and I picture the village. I dream of all the helpers. I envision all the hands. I imagine all the support and I think longingly about all the people.
The step-ins when it’s too hard, the eyes when mine are too heavy, the breath takers when it’s too much, the soft shoulders when I need a place to rest and the light, when mine has dimmed.
I picture endless and continual love from people, all people, being poured into both him and I whenever we need it.
Help taking over when I just can’t go on.
A break without judgement or an ear without expiration.
I see them, an entire family, a tribe, a full-heart of sturdy souls, ready.
There. Grounded and experienced. Practiced and trained, and able and, willing.
Willing to guide and encourage and build and, help.
And, I dream.
And I’ve dreamt.
And I’ve spent many moments, many hard moments, crying and being mad about not having a village and I’ve asked the question over and over; what do you do if the village just doesn’t come?
But one thing I’ve learnt along this path is,
my village is not made up of babysitters or people I can call in the moments of heated meltdowns. It’s not made up of people who can stop in and take over. It’s
not made up of people who have all the answers or experience, it’s not made up of people who are walking ahead of me and paving the way for me. My village is not a close-knit community where we live within walking distance of each other and my village is not a genie of help at my doorstop when I need it. No.
My village, like yours, Mama, is spread. It’s spread out, far and wide. Sprinkled lightly, but there.
Our village is the Mama at the grocery store who handed over spare wipes and helped clean up when your son vomited from anxiety.
Our village is the stranger who knelt down and played a game on her phone with your daughter to keep a meltdown at bay.
Our village is the teacher who gets that your son needs to feel connected and safe before anything else.
Our village is the doctor who knows that you know your child better than anyone else and listens closely to you.
Our village are the neighbours who simply throw back the balls and shoes that have gone over their side of the fence with understanding over annoyance.
Our village are friends who don’t hold it against you when you never return a call.
Our village is the man on the scooter who always stops to say hello, give a high five and always, always, asks how we’re doing.
Our village is the nurse who takes your son for a walk so you can talk to the doctor.
Our village is the lady who smiles in solidarity at you while you pass each other, both pushing your sons in their chairs, holding their hands, looking tired and worn and a little broken and done, but still going.
Our village Mama, isn’t always so obviously in your face.
Our village is scattered. Dotted delicately between here and there. Far and near and never who we expect. Helpers and understanders and listeners and, getters. People who get it.
They are out there Mama. Our village is out there, we’re just spread around so we can cover more ground.
Keep going Mama.
I love you.
Love, Christine x Special Soul Mama
