A Winter Birth

On My Birthday, I Think of Mum

I didn’t know then

that in midwinter

the main character should have been me—

the one receiving all the congratulations,

the only day in the year

when attention gathers around my name,

generous treats, warm smiles,

a day I wanted to be a princess.

I didn’t know then

what a winter birth meant for my mother.

I didn’t know then.

I only wanted armfuls of presents,

more friends around the table,

a feast laid out grandly,

to be treated as someone special.

I didn’t know

that on the day I was born

my mother endured a winter birth,

that in those poor days

she fed me with milk that would not come,

and swallowed her quiet sorrow.

I didn’t know then

that endurance was called a virtue,

that she bore the labour pains in silence,

that giving birth at home

had a certain scene, a certain weight.

In a winter when even one briquette was precious,

in a room not warm enough,

a mother lying down, holding her baby—

what kind of rest could she have had?

I didn’t know then.

I didn’t know then

that longing for love she hadn’t received

made me want to be repaid all at once,

once a year, on my birthday alone—

pulling hearts this way and that.

I didn’t know how my mother was

after giving birth to me,

how her heart had to steady itself

when a daughter was born

and not fully welcomed.

I didn’t know

how much harder winter made everything—

washing cloth nappies in icy water,

not being able to lie down for long,

getting up to do the housework,

drying frozen baby jackets on her arms,

then dressing me, feeding me, washing me.

I didn’t know then.

After giving birth myself,

after pouring my focus into my own child,

I found myself marking my child’s birthday

more carefully than my own.

Busy as life became,

I didn’t know how to honour

my mother’s birthday,

or even my own—the day she gave birth to me.

Even now, I can’t say I fully understand.

In those days, my mother—

with no washing machine,

no boiler running hot water,

no bottles, no formula,

no disposable nappies,

no ample congratulations or encouragement—

gave birth to me with her body,

and raised me with her body.

That is how she passed through winter.

I was born in winter.

Thinking of my mother, who must have suffered the cold,

my winter birthday

has always lingered in my heart.

In that bitter, freezing season,

may she be warm now.

May the Lord repay

the joy of having borne me.

This is my winter birthday—

offered as a blessing.

GOD BLESS YOU MUM

*these are my own paintings *