Madonna - May/June 2007

Mothers and sons - Fran Hogan

There is a certain symmetry about motherhood. You cry when your children start school and you cry when they finish. It’s partly the strain of letting go and partly sheer relief. I cannot think of anywhere else I would rather be right now than in this glorious chapel surrounded by so many other mothers and grandmothers and other special women, all biting our fingernails together as our boys sit their first VCE exam and all reflecting on the angst and grief and pride and joy that is all part of motherhood.

For some of us it is a first, having a child finish school. Others have been here before but know that it is different with each child. For some it will be a once-only experience. There are some mothers who have had to do it alone for significant parts of their sons’ schooling. Perhaps they deserve the shiniest medal of all. And those wise, generous grandmothers look upon all the ups and downs, playing a very significant role in our sons’ lives, quietly forging a relationship quite different from that of a mother and son and providing an extra bond, support and place of refuge. We are lucky to have them.

We are here today to celebrate our motherhood – those times of worry, perhaps, because our sons were finding it tough academically or hard to fit in or were suffering ill health. We are here to celebrate our memories of boys of all shapes and sizes and colours jostling their way through sporting matches, debates, musical performances, drama productions and just exuding the exuberance of being young and alive. We remember triumphant boys and disappointed boys, cocky boys and boys plagued with self-doubt, cheeky boys and charming boys, noisy boys and quiet reflective boys, smelly boys, hairy boys, scary boys, hungry boys, boys who lost things, boys who were focused and organised and boys who dawdled and dreamed, boys with a date, boys with no date, boys who didn’t know whether or not they wanted a date, boys who confided in you and boys who locked you out with a grunt, boys who gave you the best hugs and boys who pretended they were not even related to you.

We have dealt with school lunches, newsletters, missing uniforms and books, undone homework, notes to teachers, messy bedrooms, mess generally and we have found indescribable things in the bottom of mouldy school bags. Through all this we have travelled, often juggling the needs of other children and partners, work and just our own lives. Often we have felt exhausted or unappreciated. Many of us in our early parenting years reached for Stephen Biddup’s book, Raising Boys, for some guidance. We were devastated to learn from him that, while mothers are crucial to the nurturing of boys up to age six, beyond that age they are a mere background figure of little importance and it is their father’s influence who will make or break them. Well, have we all got news for you, Stephen Biddup. All of us here know that we have personally saved our boys from starvation, dehydration and even detention on countless occasions. I want Stephen Biddup to know that recently when I handed my son, Laurence, a gourmet focaccia for breakfast as he headed out the door in his usual dishevelled state, he took a bite and said, ‘You know, Mum, you really rock the casbah.’ I think I forgave Laurence everything in that moment of glory. I’m sure you all have your own moments of motherhood glory that make it all worthwhile.

Sometimes we have doubted our boys. I recall about 9 o’clock one Sunday morning receiving a telephone call from the mother of one of Laurence’s friends. She said that she knew her son was to stay the night at our place but he’d promised that he would come home that morning by 9.00 am because they had a family commitment. Could I give him a wake-up call and a hurry-along? I left her on the phone while I went to check all the usual places for temporarily displaced boys. He wasn’t there. With fear and trepidation, I reported this fact. ‘His life will not be worth living when I see him’ she said as she rang off. I said a prayer to St Anthony. I hoped that his jurisdiction included finding lost boys. It did. Ten minutes later the phone rang and the mother jubilantly announced, ‘I’ve found him. He was in his own bed all along.’ As mothers, we naturally keep a lookout for the friends of our sons and I’m sure that we are all grateful to each other for the nourishment, lifts, hospitality and care that other mothers have generously extended to our sons.

We need to cherish all these experiences. We need to be conscious that we are so fortunate to have had our boys. There are people who would have loved to have been parents who have never had the chance. There are people who have suffered the death of a child and will always wonder what might have been. We know that in third world countries and in Aboriginal communities here in Australia there are most appalling infant mortality rates and a dearth of health care for those children who do survive. We also known that if they do survive many will be lucky to receive any education.

We have had the gift of motherhood and been ably assisted in it by the talent and dedication of so many of the college staff. Right up until the delivery of this morning’s mail their pastoral care has been evident—a letter wishing our son well in his exams and a letter written by our own son many months ago to himself. How poignant and thoughtful, not only to have had our sons write such a letter but to have remembered to post it for them to read at this very crucial time of their lives.

So let’s count our blessings. Let’s celebrate the suffering, the forgiveness, the delights, the richness and the exquisite tenderness of motherhood. Let’s beam all the love we have to our beautiful boys as they finish their English exam and keep it beaming until the exams end. Then, breathe a sigh of relief and whisper a prayer of hope as we hold our breaths and launch them into the next chapter of their lives. Let’s try to keep that moral compass firmly pointed and love them with all our hearts, and I reckon they’ll turn out all right.

Frances Hogan is a Judge of the County Court of Victoria She gave this reflection at the Mothers and Grandmothers Mass of her Year 12 student-son Laurence in late 2008.