Commentary

The thrill of being a Mother in celebration of Mother’s Day

May 14, 2026   ·   0 Comments

By Constance Scrafield

Actually, it was my horse, Patrick, who was first to let me know. He was quite the lad, you see, always ready for a little razzmatazz on the trail, who on that day had a whole new attitude to our outing.

Just a gentle trot-on, and when I suggested a canter, he was all caution and watchfulness, looking over his shoulder to make sure I had a tight leg and proceeding in a canter that was positively sedate.

What’s wrong with this horse? Thought I and the answer was: nothing!

Back at home, a test told me I was pregnant!

Being pregnant was a great time for me, for I was somehow spared morning sickness, mood swings – all those aches and pains. There was perhaps some influence on my food choices, I who always preferred the cheese course to a sweet was suddenly impatient with the savoury obligations to the meal and chomping at the bit for dessert – bring it on first, as the saying goes.

A few of us were out having afternoon tea one day in a fine, old-fashioned hotel that understood how afternoon tea should look. The first round of trays carried delicate sandwiches with their crusts cut off and dear little savoury scones; I had little patience for any of it, straining to see if our gentlemanly waiter was coming back soon with a tray or so of goodies. Here he was at last, and the menu for the tea included one choice. I pointed, suffering to decide amongst them on one; my companions each did likewise, but not one of them took that lovely cream-filled eclair to possibly share with me.

“Wait,” I protested. “no one wants one of those eclairs?”

Spying my growing baby bulge, the waiter relented and put a small collection of the delicacies on my plate and murmured, “Compliments of the house, Madam.”

So it went, a sunny time for me while carrying my child and a virtually pain-free, drug-free delivery, although I certainly learned why it is called “labour.”

Patricia was named after my mother, not my horse, as the people at the barn where he was boarded amused themselves to say. Her father was a friend, long since divorced and the father of three, who had agreed to my choice as a single parent, himself her acknowledged father but living separately.

Raising Patricia as a single mom was even more fun than her gestation; a single mom to be sure, but with the aid of a nanny for the first 18 months, a lady who had always been a nanny for other families. She taught me, an only child with no baby experience, to play with my baby, laugh with her, and talk to her about colours, music, and fun. I had three pillars in my philosophy of how to raise my child: music, travel and horses. They formed her life and led her to be a musician with a broad view of the world and a deeply compassionate soul.

It was early on, when my tiny child first called me “Mommy,,” that opened like a fresh light on what an honour it is to be someone’s “mommy.” It was an insight that has stayed steady with me all the way into her adulthood.

Those days were mostly in the UK until Patricia and I, our dog, and Patrick came back to Canada when she was six.

We came back to the Hockley Valley, which I had remembered when I was a teenager visiting it, that it was beautiful and home to many artists. I reckoned we would meet like minds there and in Orangeville, which we surely have done.

So, to set the stage, Patricia, fully an adult but afflicted by rheumatoid arthritis, and I have settled to live together, which suits us very well.

For Mother’s Day this year, she wrote a poem for me. It is a history of our life together so far, headed separately by her age at the time of each story. She places the scene and then describes me as her eyes saw me, with such depth and love as a mother could barely hope. She tells in miniature those times when we were bold or in my garden, when I was there to see her perform or by an ocean at our leisure. She thrills to those days in Hockley riding with Patrick and her Welsh Arab pony Windsor in the best of times. She praises my care for her first broken heart. She calls me a champion when we were facing a tragedy.

She tells me how she loves me.

Do we do this often enough, salute those who have raised us? If a day were not set aside to praise and remind us of those important people in our lives – Mother’s Day, Father’s Day – would we take pause and make our gratitude, our love known?

It might be good to cling to some of what seems old-fashioned. Or maybe we could start a new old-fashioned – maybe we could write a poem sometimes for those we love.

It doesn’t need to rhyme.

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