All Mothers Need Support

Top: (L) My mother just before my parents bought a house in the middle of nowhere. (R) My Oma and I. She travelled to Jasper, Alberta from the Netherlands for my wedding. Bottom: (L) My daughters who are gorgeous inside and out! (R) Snuggling my granddaughter.

My oldest daughter and her family are moving to Vancouver Island this week. My 4-month old granddaughter will only be a Zoom visit away. But to actually snuggle her, I will need to travel 4 to 5 hours, which includes a $200 ferry ride. For my daughter, it will be a new beginning, a time to establish roots and make new friends. This will be an exciting opportunity for her. But I know she will also miss the support she receives from her friends and family.

These days, mothers, daughters, and granddaughters have been much on my mind. Women are giving birth in bunkers in Ukraine. Then, seeking refuge, they are leaving behind husbands, parents, and grandparents. So many babies were born during the pandemic, and so many mothers received little to no support. And then there are the grandmothers who, because of the pandemic, did not meet grandchildren until they were 2-years-old. I am thinking most though, of my mother, immigrating to Canada from the Netherlands. Imagine starting life in a new country, a 30-year-old mother with three young children, including a 5-week-old baby. My daughter becoming a mother reminds me of what those first few months of motherhood are like. I remember recovering from childbirth. I remember the exhaustion of sleepless nights and juggling routines and responsibilities. I think of my mother packing up a lifetime, giving away treasured memories, and saying goodbye to friends and family, including her own mother. Then getting on a plane to travel halfway across the world with a practically newborn baby. I think of how brave she was and how scared she must have been.

When we arrived in Canada, we settled into an apartment in the Montreal suburbs, a complex full of immigrant families, including a Dutch community that embraced our family. At age six, my first year was full of joy and new discoveries. I learned English, made friends, joined Brownies, and happily headed off to school. I remember speaking English to my father, smugly knowing my mother could not understand. My mother watched soap operas to teach herself English. I can still see her sitting in front of our black and white TV, holding a baby, a toddler underfoot. I can remember tears.

We arrived in Canada in July 1965. The following summer, my parents purchased their first house. Homeownership was not easy for young families back then in the Netherlands. They were now the proud owners of a 3-bedroom home with a finished basement, garage, and big backyard. Again, I had no problem adapting. I started grade 3 at a new school and met my best friend, Laurie. We are still friends, 55 years later. The neighborhood became our playground; we would only head home when hungry.

Yes, my parents had bought their first house, but it was in a new development on the edge of farmland, in the middle of nowhere. My father had a 90-minute work commute each way, and he had taken a second job so they could make ends meet. There were no grocery stores close by, no bus system, and no community amenities. Although my father taught my mother how to drive, she did not have a car. Many young families had moved to the neighborhood but no new immigrant families, and certainly no one who spoke Dutch. 

In this proudly-owned home, my mother’s mental health began to unravel. At the time, I had no idea what was happening. I only know that my mother was angry, moody, and unpredictable. I was reluctant to come home after school, not knowing what was waiting for me. My mother was from a culture and generation that did not speak about feelings. Her sadness and depression were expressed through rage and long silences.

I have spent most of my career in family support and community development, working to create programs and resources for vulnerable and isolated families. What a difference a similar support system would have been for my mother. Those supports were not available back then.

The only communication we had then was snail mail; the telephone was only used for emergencies. My grandparents visited every year. I loved the anticipation of their arrival; my mother would be so happy. However, intense 3-month visits with parents come with their own stresses, the spark soon faded.

Now that I am an omi, I realize how difficult it must have also been for my grandmother. She lost her daughter, a son-in-law she adored, and her grandchildren to another country. As a child, I had a close relationship with my grandmother. Geographical distance, however, created an emotional chasm as I grew older.

Support systems are so much improved these days. My daughter is already looking into swimming lessons and storytime, so she can connect with other parents. Travelling half a day for a visit is nothing these days; I expect her sister and friends will often visit. We message and call each other regularly. My husband and I also have our island home, soon to be our retirement home, only 90-minutes away from our grandbaby. But then what about my youngest daughter, who is engaged and settled on the mainland? How much travel time to visit her? You guessed it, just as long, 4 to 5 hours, including a $200 ferry ride!