THIS IS ME, 'THE MOTHER'

A good girlfriend said, "This is me, 'the mother'. Not some TV personality or friend...". This, she said of her picture with Baby R, her youngest, latching on for nourishment. Nourishment that only a mother can give to a child. Milk of her own blood, flesh, heart, mind, body, soul. Milk that if given, from a person, other than mother, makes another stranger's infant, one's own.

This as stated in the religion of Islam. The rights of a birth mother will be awarded to one's wet nurse, even when the service rendered is actually a binding contract involving the exchange of monetary rewards. Such is the power of this contact, of this arrangement from one body to another. One, when even if, a life did not originate from one's womb, or from one's ovaries, maketh another life that of one's own. Simply if milk flowed consistently from the mammary glands of one woman into the gut of an infant. That alone, awards you the status of mother.

Wet-nursing, a custom once widely practiced, then extinct is now revived once more in some posh parts of China due to the imitation infant formula scare. Give a human baby, the best of its best; human milk, that is. Not some pasteurised, powdered, herbivourous, non-human, non-highest ordered, grazing, domesticated animal's milk. Or worse, be tricked into levelling scoops of zero-nutrient formula.

Alas, I'm not lashing out on those who have chosen not to feed likewise. Please, no. I believe in the power of choice, informed or otherwise. I only want to draw upon the varied ideas behind these words: "This is me, 'the mother'."

Is it what we do or don't do that makes us a mother? Why would a wet nurse be accorded one of the most honoured and cherished title in this world? Is it the inevitable transfer of one's genetic information from milk to protein that creates a mother and child bond? Or is it the loving kindness and attention that is felt when two completely unlike individuals come together in the privacy of satiation and need? Or is it that rush of relief and comfort that flows with the onslaught of every let-down? Or is it the cognitive awe that one experiences, regardless of class or stature, when one is able to give life and nourishment to a completely helpless being? Or is it the warmth that you feel when the tender skin of private breasts rests upon the fluff of a newborn cheek? Or is it the cosmic feelings that arose as two souls unite; the souls of a mother and child?

I sit and I reflect upon the wonders of this magic. "This is me, 'the mother'...", who will give all of herself and her worldly posessions to nourish every domain in that life she calls her own. This is the mother who will fight all of her battles and demons, internal, external or otherwise in the hope that peace and prosperity prevails. This is the mother you will see anywhere and everywhere in this universe or even that speculated parallel dimension. This is the mother who has the penchant to stand past the last ovation. This is the mother who will pick up all the broken pieces even if her instincts urge her to allow the child, his own foils. This is the mother who will stumble and fumble and yet remain till death do us part. This is the mother I salute.

Stand please, all you mothers and take a bow.