Tag: Mother’s Day

I Mother No One

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For the motherless, childless, mothering mothers who still mother & always will

AI-Generated Image: A Black woman and her four children, two girls and two boys. They are all facing the camera with lovely smiles on their faces. The mother has her natural hair swooped to the side and full in the back. She is wearing an orange-ish top with a bold red lipstick. The children are leaning against her, two to each side.
I Mother No One

Each year, I document how I mother while being childless, and I am inspired by so many women who are mothers in their own way. They have mothered the motherless, tended to the childless, cared for the wayward, and loved the newly orphaned and tormented. I know older sisters (myself included) who still mother their significantly younger siblings – they offer advice and pick them up in the middle of the night from clubs when they’ve had too much to drink and are far too inebriated to string full sentences together. They are Wonder Woman and Superwoman in ways I cannot fathom, while still managing to pull their lives together just in the nick of time to keep it from falling apart.

I have befriended aunts who have lived their lives centered around their nieces and nephews (myself included). They never miss a birthday, video call at all hours of the day to see their babies’ smiling faces, pop up at schools to surprise them with lunch, and will stomp a mudhole in an older kid bullying a baby of theirs and then ask that child, “Where is your mama so she can get some of this, too?” like it’s just a normal Tuesday during a regular week.

I know elder cousins acting as mothers for their younger cousins who have lost their way – the paths of life have worn them down to the nubs, and all they can do now is cry and weep and wail on their cousin’s shoulder. They are pillars in the face of adversity and can calm their blood-related loved ones down in seconds flat. I loved an elder cousin like this once. I still do, even though she is no longer here with us on this Earthly Plane. I admire these cousins – they are my suns and moons – light in an ever-increasing darkness.

Still, as the definitions apply:

Mother: The Definition(s)

I mother no one. I have mothered. I do motherly things. I can mother up and down the corners and edges of this world, but I did not give birth to a child. I have been all that I can be to my cousins, nieces, nephews, brothers, and sister, and so many more, but they are not mine. They do not belong to me. I did not vainly labor with any of them. I cannot recount delivery tales of anguish and agony, nor can I gloat about them taking after me when they do something of which I approve.

My ovaries did not contribute to society. My womb is barren – it is a prison cell for emptiness and passing hours. I have no desire to see it grow with a miniature version of me inside.

I am in awe of those who have taken the plunge. For the women who are mothers by definition and tradition, I tip my hat off to you. You have a job that never ends, and you receive no pay, no time off, and no vacation to rejuvenate your mind or spirit. You are often overlooked, cast into the shadows of endless time, and you do it all without complaint, although you want to. And you have your heart committed to this task until you or your child(ren) die. How heroic is that?!

I wait on the wings of hope, secretly wishing I could understand – gain just a glimpse of your life, then I remember . . . some of us are here to be what we can be, and we mother in other ways. I find a sense of solace within this reminder. You have my love and respect. You are to be championed every hour of each day.

AI-Generated Image: A Hispanic woman cuddling her two boys. She has a beautiful smile, and both boys are leaning into her, engaged with the camera. There is a blurred background of green and perhaps a playground out of sight, too?

As I sit here and type this message to each of you, I want you to know of your brilliance, of your patience, of your timeless selflessness that knows no bounds. If you are a mother and mothering the way you are meant to fit that role, you have my undying admiration. If you care when the word seems to fall off the tongues of menaces who have forgotten its meaning, I see you. If you are soldiering forward with $15.27 to your name and have prepared a meal for your children using $12.58 of that, I see you. You’ve got every other human being tracking you down and leaning against your chest yearning for a thirty-minute suckle at your breasts, yet you constantly put your children first and slam the door in their faces and verbally admonish their requests, know that I SEE YOU.

For the mothers who are not mothers, mothering in the face of time, barren wombs, lost hope, wayward siblings, and all of the missed marks of this world as you raise your gift of nurturing to higher heights, I see you. When the world says, “But you are not a mother,” I hear your cries in the middle of the night as you softly shout back to the women who hold the title only, “And neither are you!” I see you. When you’re stopped in the grocery store by a toddler who noticed your smile two aisles down and ran behind you to see it again, escaping his mother, you have a good heart, and that baby can tell, too. I SEE YOU.

For the motherless, childless, mothering mothers who still mother and always will, this is your day. And with it, do what you will. You have earned it, and with it, may I embrace you fully and wholly and center you when everything in this current realm is burning to the ground. Find love and hope in the eyes of a child you mothered and look at your reflection in their eyes.

You are more than what you think you are to them. Believe me.

2016, 2017, 2018, 2019, 2020, 2021, & 2024

I Mother No One

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Jernee Admiring Her Reflection. ©2024 Tremaine L. Loadholt


I have not given birth to anyone, but I have mothered some; auntied others. I am my dog’s world and my tortoise’s favorite human.

I am a nurturer by default, a giver by God, and a sound and whole lover. I know what I know because I’ve seen what I’ve seen.

To the mothers who have mothered without rest, haven’t had a decent meal in hours, hustling throughout the day from school drop-offs and pickups, and home to make dinner before the streetlights come on.

To those mothering, because they’ve been shoved into that role, forced to take on someone else’s children, eager to adopt the motherless & fatherless. And to the big sisters, big brothers, aunties, and uncles.

To those of you grieving a mother. Crying without sound. Worried if you’ll feel whole again. Living without your mother or mothering human, yet still hurting and longing for their presence, I see you. You are loved and I hope today doesn’t burden you too much.

To mothers of pets cradling their fur babies or singing with their feathered friends or being envious of their reptilian or amphibian creatures. You aren’t lost on me. I know what it takes to keep a pet (s) healthy and not lose your sanity in the process.

To all of you doing what you can, however you can, and whenever you can . . . I hope this Mother’s Day will be a blessing and not a curse. Joy and not sadness. Holy and not evil. And I say that with a love that has no words and cannot be fully described.

You are, every one of you, cherished and admired, and my highest thought of you is one of complete and total adoration.

Peace and blessings.

For the Mothering Ones

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A Mother’s Day poem

Photo by Annie Spratt via Unsplash

I won’t claim to know
the depth of love a
mother has for her
children; how she will war
for them without hesitation,
disciplines them when it’s
necessary, and sacrifices to
keep them sustained.

She is a queen who does
not own any crowns except
the one on her head, yet she
dazzles the earth with her
power.

I can’t say I know what
she has had to do in
order to make $15.00
last until the next payday
with two other mouths
to feed, but I know
the glow around her as
it shines to reach the
rest of us.

And as we stand outside of
her realm, us … the mothering ones,
watching her and
taking notes, we can
somewhat understand.

If you are a nurturer, caretaking
for someone who needs
an extra hand, I see you.
If you race toward the overtime
offers to pull in additional funds
for a senior pet, a niece or
nephew, or your neighbor’s
neglected twins, I see you.

If you haven’t slept in
three days because your dying
cat’s medicine cost more
than your groceries, I see you.
If you are an older sibling
putting your sisters and brothers
ahead of your wants & needs,
I k n o w that place.

And as we all catapult
ourselves into a constantly
taking world, we give
and give and give until
the last bit of us is
dried up and gone.

And even then, we’ll give
some more.

For the mothering ones;
Your plight is one that
cannot be denied, and with
every piling day, may your
existence be praised from
the pits of full bellies,
from the mouths of babes,
and from the people who
need you most.

I see you.

Originally published in soliloque via Medium.

Mothers, I Celebrate You

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The workaholic
Who never has enough sleep
Cares for everyone

Undeniable
My gift to you is this love
Your existence saves

Mothers, God bless you
You bloom when we all wither
Weeping willows sing

Happy Mother’s Day to those of you who are mothers, those of you mothering others who are not your own, caretakers and rescuers and do-gooders. Thank you for who you are and what you do. I celebrate you.

I Mother No One

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Part VI: Realizing my mothering days will never be over

Jernee aka The Boss, aka The Little Monster, resting after a mid-afternoon walk. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

My mother came to stay with me from April 20, 2021, until April 24, 2021. The intent? To be here with me after my consultation and workup for keratoconus on April 22, 2021. I had been informed prior to the appointment by the nurse that I could have blurry vision for a few hours. My mother thought it best to be here so she could help with Jernee. I will preface this by saying, I am not used to having someone in my space for more than three days (or needing assistance or reaching out for it) and each time my mom stays with us past that mark (it’s not often — it’s quite rare), I am further reminded of why I left home at such a young age.

To say that we are vastly different would not cut it. I am daytime and my mother is nightfall. We are at two different ends of a spectrum yet — the love we have for each other knows no bounds. As I age, I thank God for lending me another year so I can continue to try to understand the woman who gave birth to me.

Will I ever succeed in this? Or, will I die trying?

I want to be optimistic about who we are and the fact that we still have growing to do and we will accomplish that together but an aching nag in the back of my mind tries to subdue me and cause me to believe it is impossible.

I can see a picture of us with growth behind us that leads to a positive outcome years from now, but I can also see a picture of the opposite. Which one will prevail?

Those days spent with my mother a couple weeks ago, ushering in earlier dinner times and trying to be patient with her long, drawn-out stories and rehashing of things said earlier in the day could not end soon enough. My mother will be sixty years old this year and there are already signs of her mental faculties closing in on her. When I was in my teens, she spent most of her money and time depositing various drugs into her system including copious amounts of alcohol.

She had been running away from who she was for several years and now it seems as if she is circling back to that past person sans drugs, of course. Her temperament is easily disrupted. A word that is spoken out of turn or in reference to something she may have said that was incorrect will send harmful epithets flying in the very direction of those she loves.

We have many conversations about her failing memory and how if I truly needed someone to take care of me should an extreme turn of events occur, she may in fact not be that person. I do not feel confident lending my life to her — not in that way and it pains me to say so — to even see the words typed on-screen, causes me to tear up.

What do you do when you’ve mothered a mother who was a mother before her time and you may have to keep mothering her well before you think it’s time?

At the age of eighteen, motherhood was thrust upon her and although she used to tell me she was ready, she truly wasn’t. Neither of my parents was. The two of them have my great-grandmothers, grandmother, godmother, and older aunts to thank for helping them raise me. And with this, what did they get? A little girl who was mature enough to handle certain situations they could have never thought of handling while they were growing up. I also had the label “grown” thrown at me more times than I care to remember.

To grow alongside one’s parents is an odd thing. My mother was my mother but felt more like a friend. My father was my father but felt more like the homeboy up the block I played basketball with to sharpen my skills. We were all growing up together but I was being groomed, it seemed, to be more of an adult than them.

And when their divorce happened, so did the crash into drugs for my mother and my taking over her mothering role, and it kind of stuck. So, instead of being an actual sister to my siblings, I am more of a godmother or a mother or a being they show far more respect to than they do their own parents. It doesn’t feel good — it isn’t something for which I applaud them. I am rather upfront about how I feel they should treat our parents.

I don’t like the angered human being who spews out never-ending wrath because of trapped pain or perhaps the fear of aging or perhaps the fear of losing a handle on her children even more? I believe my mother felt useful being here with me during those few days but swiftly noticed that I was still as independent as I have always been.

So, where did that place her? How could she try to insert her mother role if there were no more opportunities?

The Boss, posing at the perfect moment. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

In walks Jernee . . . the nine-pounder who has truly stolen my mother’s heart. I enjoyed every moment (as I always do) watching my mother and my dog interact. Jernee has a favorite spot whenever my mother visits or when we visit my mother and that’s as close to her nana as she can get. My mother is calm with her, undeniably sweet, and rubs or pats her tummy or back until Jernee falls asleep.

She is cautious in how she prepares her food and is rather vocal to anyone who thinks Jernee can have every treat there is under the sun (she can’t, she has various allergies and I am serious about not having her hospitalized again for hemorrhagic gastroenteritis). She will let you know in a way in which you will not forget that Jernee “cannot have that. Thank you, but no thank you.”

She loves on her with genuine sincerity and this touches me at the very center of who I am and I cannot help but appreciate the love she pours into this pet who means so much to me.

Not a grandmother (my nieces and nephews are my dad’s grandchildren), my mom shows me the mothering qualities she has stored up over the years in hopes of using once again, are carefully being issued to her “granddog.”

It is in her voice — in the way she lures Jernee to her. It is in the way she takes her time with Jernee who now, sometimes struggles to see late at night. It is also in the way she disciplines me for attempting to demand something of Jernee.

I look at the two of them together and there is no doubt in my mind that my mom is mothering the way she has always wanted to. And all it took was a connection to my dog who has really become “our family’s dog” since I introduced them to one another thirteen years ago.

We may not be the best mother-daughter team but we know our flaws and we’re willing to continue to work on them and get better at being open to the changes occurring. We will forever be works in progress but we have come so far and the war still rages.

Both of us are warriors, ready for battle — ready to keep each other first, no matter the cost. I realize now — I’ll always mother someone for it is deeply ingrained in who I am. And perhaps my mother will no doubt use her newfound mothering skills to press forward into the coming years sharpening those skills.

Maybe with her human grandchildren, if two of my brothers decide to actually make that dream a reality. I can almost smell the love in the air.

I think we’re ready.

To those of you mothering mothers who have lost their way, mothers who cannot remember their roles, or mothers who look up to you more than you can fathom, this is for you. Mothers and mothering people giving your all to your children or someone else’s, thank you. Happy Mother’s Day.

Previous parts to I Mother No One

Originally published in P. S. I Love You via Medium.

I Mother No One

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I Mother No One

Part V: Yearning To Hold My Mother In My Arms.

Photo by Anna Shvets via Pexels

I mother no one. There’s no one for me to mother. To hold, to kiss, to shelter away from every storm . . . I want the one thing I cannot have and this damn global pandemic is making it worse. I missed the opportunity of spreading love to my own, of carrying on a bloodline that would have my eyes for years after my death. What it felt like to learn, to know, to be told that had I pursued attempting to have children, I would not be successful: I had no words. But my mother — she took a chance on bringing me into this world. No one had a say in if she would or would not do it. She wanted to. I hear my mother’s voice — the phone is an okay replacement, but it doesn’t give me the full view of her.

There’s no surround-sound Angie.

I want to see her in animated form, in her bold and “say what I want to say” presence. My mother doesn’t care about the thoughts of others — how one may view her, viewed her, will view her . . . She has always been matter-of-factly, no-nonsense, and vocal. She is a spark — she’ll light up any room.

Every year, I am given another three hundred sixty-five days to grow with her and learn her too. She is sometimes fearful of what to say around me, though, of how to say what she wants to say. She tells me, “I can’t say things the way you can. It won’t sound the way I want it to sound.” I encourage her to “just say it, Mom.” And she does, no holds barred.

I envy that — the courage to speak without fear. To be brave enough to open my mouth and say what I truly want to say, but most times, I cannot. I have to write it, instead. And the thing I want most is the opposite of what my mom wants. If we traded characteristics and did things differently, we wouldn’t be who we are. I lift her up when she needs it. She makes me laugh when I need it. Have you ever heard anyone cuss better than a sailor? You haven’t heard my mother . . . She can hopscotch with shit, plant marigolds with fuck, and damn anyone from North Carolina to Texas without flinching.

It is not her use of vulgar language that I want to highlight. It is not her boisterous ways or her inability to care about the thoughts of others when pertaining to her, no . . . it is her undeniable source of strength and never-ending love for me. To have a child who ventures out into the world to a job that exposes her to a threatening virus daily and not lose your mind takes resilience. It takes a healthy dose of sanity and resistance to breaking. I will never know the pain she knows. I will never feel the emotions piling up on her wondering, praying, and hoping for her child — for her children.

I am ordered to call or text her when I get home. If I am off, I am asked to let her know this. My whereabouts are simple; work, home, and the occasional errand run if needed. Before this downward spiral of our world, we spoke almost every day — her calling more than I would. Now, I make it a point to pick up the phone to let her know when I have made it home and when I plan on venturing out again (if I need to). I am covered by her love. I am surrounded by her prayers. I can feel her tears. They are all a part of every breath I take when I step outside my door.

I have not seen my mother since mid-March. I have not held her. I have not hugged her. I have not dwelled in the welcoming fragrances of her home in two months and I would be lying if I said it is not affecting me. It is. I have lived farther away from my mom than I do now, but that was by choice. I needed to be away from her. There were circumstances then that had proven best for the both of us for me to be as far away as I was. Now that we have grown and significant changes have taken place on both our parts, I would not want to be that far away again.

The simple act of a hug, an embrace calls to me more than it ever has before. I yearn to hold my mother and I cannot. I yearn to stand near her, to welcome her into my home, and I cannot. The last thing I would want to do is put her in any semblance of danger given my place of work and what I do. If I did not have my wits about me, I would pull my hair out. I never thought I would miss something as small as a hug — the physical act of showing someone you truly care . . .

This Mother’s Day, I cannot do what I want to do most — hold mine in my arms.

*For mothers yearning to hold their mothers. Mothers who have lost their mothers. Mothers who are mothering their own without being able to mother them. For mothers yet still holding on to the power of not letting go. Happy Mother’s Day.

Originally published in P. S. I Love You via Medium.