Last winter, I went to the Yoko Ono exhibit at the Vancouver Art Gallery. I went into the exhibit expecting to learn about the Beatles, the 60s and a woman whose story was probably overshadowed by the rock star she married. But one of the first things that struck me in the exhibit was that Ms. Ono had brought her 5-year-old daughter Kyoko to the “bed-ins for peace.” It hadn’t occurred to me that Ms. Ono might have been a mother, and a fairly new one at that, when she met John Lennon and went on a public crusade to create art and promote world peace.
I wondered—like I often do when I find out successful women have children—about the “shadow life” behind the scenes, what isn’t in photographs. What are all the pieces the mother is frantically balancing behind the scenes? Who else is silently stepping in to pick up the pieces? Where are the meltdowns, the pep talks, the hunts for the lost stuffy, the macaroni and cheese orders? Was there a nanny whose work didn’t make it into the history books? Did Kyoko like traveling and being in the press? How did this affect her? Was John the stepparent she needed? And for Ms. Ono, what complicated emotions came up when she made choices for her art, for her family, for John? What were all the things she knew John could not possibly understand as she navigated her new life in the public eye while being a mom?
As I wandered through the exhibit wondering about the layers of motherhood that lay behind the videos, the photos and the paintings, I remembered my grandmother, a watercolour artist, teaching me about positive space and negative space—the main subject and what lies between. I searched for motherhood expecting it to be hidden behind the scenes, but Ms. Ono had brought it to the forefront. She had taken something that is often invisible for famous women and brought it into the light. As part of the exhibit, Ms. Ono invited gallery visitors to describe their mothers. They reflected on being mothered. Visitors wrote their thoughts on post it notes:
You loved me without question or reservation.
My mom lost herself to have me. I love her.
My mom is a blanket. Warm, tattered, and safe.
The last one struck me. A blanket is a good metaphor for what one wants from a mother—to feel embraced with warmth and comfort. One does not want a mom who is a stormy day, a windy hike up Mt Doug or even an invigorating sail in the Salish Sea. Mothers are meant to be safe, warm places, just like a duvet that provides solace before drifting off to sleep. And yet, blankets are best when they’re broken in, when they are soft from wear, when the new smell has been replaced with memories of movie watching, cuddling and winter nights in front of the fire. But are they best tattered?
As a mother, I feel like parenting is a constant battle against getting tattered, against losing the essence of who I am in the face of making peanut butter sandwiches, fighting protests about getting pants on, swim class registration deadlines and a sore back from all those times my daughter says “uppy!” even though she can walk perfectly well. It’s laughing on the living room floor as we take selfies but also resisting the primal urge to rest at 3am when my daughter yells at me to readjust her blankets. It’s wanting to write, or study, or watch movies after she’s in bed only to have to wash the many dishes we accumulated during a food colouring experiment. It’s “I love you to the moon!” and “You’re my favourite mommy” but also being surprised every Monday morning by just how relaxing checking my emails over a hot cup of coffee can be after a fun-filled weekend of swimming and playgrounds and buckling and unbuckling my daughter in and out of the car seat and driving around until she naps at exactly the right time.
Since having my daughter, I often feel tattered. Especially first thing when I wake up, longing for more sleep, and look in the mirror in shock at my puffy eyes and ever-expanding wrinkles. But if I am warm and safe like a blanket, does being tattered matter? At least does it matter to 3-year-old? Probably not. But it matters to me.
That’s why I came to this exhibit alone. That’s why I risk Covid to go to the gym. That’s why I try to harness my village so I can sit in a coffee shop and collect myself. But it’s hard; some tattering is inevitable.
I’m sure Ms. Ono felt this, as relaxed as she looked in the photos.
Perhaps that is why she took her daughter out of school to join rock stars and live in hotels and promote world peace. Maybe that was part her fight against tatteredness. Her fight to stay whole.
Perhaps your reprieve comes through expensive coffee or YouTube Yoga or posting funny videos on TikTok. Maybe it’s a big project at work, a phone call with an old friend or redecorating the nursery. However big or small, it matters.
At times, motherhood may be the primary subject of our lives, but it is not the whole picture. The other parts of ourselves deserve attention as well. They aren’t just the space in between; they are our ammunition in the fight to stay whole.