On becoming a Mother

by Anna Jones Buttimore

Terrible glasses, but I'm sure they were the height of fashion on 28th August 1995.

Indulge me, just for today, good readers. Because eighteen years ago today I became a mother for the first time. My precious firstborn, Gwenllian, is 18 today. (I now have a grown up child. Gulp. She can vote. Double gulp.)

Having children is, I think, the biggest life change we can experience in life. And possibly the biggest joy. Maybe also the biggest challenge. I've certainly loved motherhood, for the most part. There have been times I have wondered whether I would survive it with my sanity intact, but my girls have turned out mostly okay, despite my not having a clue how to do the mothering thing.

When Gwen was born it was just me and two lovely midwives in the Delivery Suite at Ysbyty Gwynedd, North Wales, because my husband (now ex) was enjoying his last night of freedom and none of the midwives on duty at the hospital had been able to reach him, even though he had one of those new-fangled mobile phone things. Looking back, I rather liked it that way. I had her all to myself for the first half-hour of her life. Not that that was anything like enough time to come to terms with suddenly being responsible for a tiny, helpless, human being. I'm not sure eighteen years is long enough, actually. Probably best not to think about just how much power we have to shape those little lives for good or bad.

But now she's neither tiny nor helpless. In fact, she's at college and making plans for her future. I can look at her and tick the box that says "successfully raise a child to adulthood".