An ode to traveling mothers

We met on our way to Kangerlussuaq…

Sitting across from each other with breakfast to go – quick sandwiches from airport kiosks. We swap stories, each with two kids, talking about jobs that took us both far and wide. An instant recognition, a sense of unspoken relief, a shared kinship.

Because we’ve chosen paths judged more harshly than fathers.

It is a choice at the end of the day. A choice to leave or to stay. To forage and pave, to show our children there are many ways to be mothers. Each equally worthy. Each a different lesson to teach.

So, we work to open up the world to them, to open up their minds on traditional roles. We work to break down those boxes. Tear them apart, rip them up so their worlds are never framed by “don’ts” tied solely to their gender.

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. It never gets easier leaving your heart behind each time but we forge on.

We bite into our sandwiches as we talk. Of places explored solo and with the brood in tow. Of places explored with unflinching spouses and a much-needed break from kids.

Of never losing one’s self because roles have changed.

It is a privilege we traveling mothers have. One of partners carved from solid rock, carrying, propping, and above all, loving us to the core.

‘Tis a right privilege of showing our children a world beyond borders. Borders we build for mothers.

Those self-sacrificing givers from the dawn of time. There are many ways to be a mother and there are many lessons we choose to teach our children.

Because it is a choice at the end of the day. To love our children in our own way.

There is a season for everything. A season to stay and a season to leave. A time to nest and a time to fly.

Oh, traveling mothers who live across seasons and see it all as living one life. Where winter blends into spring and spring overflows into summer which trickles into autumn.

We smile and talk about our jobs judged more harshly than men by the very same sex we break those boxes for.

So, I salute you traveling mothers. Amidst whispers of judgement and scorn wrought with restrictions from those blessed with choice and privilege yet choose to waste.

I salute you.