To mothers.
Collection of short essays for ‘Essays in a changing world’
I can do this.
She was under no delusions. Being a mother changed everything. She knew of course, she always knew before it even happened to her. But now that it has, she was left reeling in shock, or rather, the lack of it.
She knew, she was now responsible for a person’s life. She could no longer be immature, no longer rely on people, hide behind them. She had to protect someone now, a child. Her child. Yet the prospect of being a parent seemed much less daunting than she thought it would be. The loss of personal time, the loss of putting herself first, these were all things she dreaded…so why was she not dreading them?
Inwardly, the rational side of her brain worked. She would have to get a job that would let her work from home, she should probably save up a good bit for when she will be indisposed, taking care of a new born. Babies needed a lot of things did they not? She should probably read up on those, take some classes if she could…
Suddenly she felt like an adult. No longer like a child who paraded under the skin of one. She was a real adult. The realization washed over her but left no joy, no excitement in her heart. After reviewing herself again, she realized, she was still who she was. Her favourite food was still chocolate, she was still obsessed with Marvel comics. The only thing that seemed to have changed was that now, she could no longer depend on others…but she had always known that. The only person you can depend on is yourself…but she felt more at peace with the notion now. As if she no longer had that last bit of childhood to hold onto like a crutch, to begrudge the world for not giving her someone to be there for her.
Belatedly, she surmised, nothing has changed except now she was going to have a change in lifestyle. But lifestyle changes come with even the simplest of things, like a new job…Being a mother is a new job of sorts is it not?
No…she thought to herself, being a parent is never a job, a child did not deserve that. They deserved the best she could offer…and a wry grin grew on her face. This was what they called a mother’s love isn’t it? This strange unconditional love that grew from nowhere simply because now an egg sat fertilized in her womb.
She was going to be a mother.
She could do this.
— -
Labour, she decided belatedly, was the worst part of motherhood. Perhaps it was because she was still in her early twenties, being awakened at ungodly hours of the morning did not bother her as much as it should. Sure there were days she was tempted to stick a sock in the little hellion’s mouth, but no level of sleep-deprivation could have compared to the pain of labour. She was almost disappointed that her son was not a daughter, because now, she would not be able to tell him to experience childbirth before he comes asking for a younger sibling. No, there was no way she was going through that again.
The nurses at the hospital had been kind, overly so when they realized there would not to be man to hold her hand throughout the ordeal. They have subtly slipped her some brochures for single-mother support groups, she had not so subtly slipped them into the trashcan. The idea of having to deal with other human beings who did not pop out from her womb was far more daunting than the idea of parenthood. Besides, if she needed to ask anyone anything, there was always Uncle Google.
This was an adventure, her and the little bundle of hellion (for she knew no other human being could take after her genes and not be such) will now embark on their own little adventure together. The prospect excited her, they were going to be awesome.
Holding him for the first time
Neonate (noun); plural: neonates
1. A newborn child or mammal.
2. Medicine: an infant less than four weeks old.
Wrapped in a bundle of the softest towel the hospital had to offer (which arguably, was not the softest towel in the world of towels), the neonate in my arms presented all the appropriate physical characteristics that those of its kind would possess. The skin that peeked out from the bundle was a dark red, with patches of lanugo, supposedly soft, downy body hair, on the forehead and cheeks. I use the words supposedly because it was hard to tell when said hair was matted with a thin film of greasy white substance known was the vernix. The only hair-free spot on the skin was not blemish free either though. Milia, tiny white spots, not unlike whiteheads, peppered the small nose, giving off an oily sheen.
Slimy, prune-colored and covered in substances that one would prefer to not mention at dining tables, it looked an awful lot like a mutant out of one of October’s movie offerings. It would be 7 days before the neonate’s head reverted itself to a more oval, skull-like shape. Although it took only a mere 48 hours before the dark red skin receded to a more human-looking shade of pink. The milia went away on the third week, but the soft fur-like fuzz remained all over the neonate’s body until the fourth month. Although by then the neonate had evolved itself into a more familiar entity, what is commonly known aas a human infant or, more colloquially, a baby.
The noun baby is truly a romanticized term. The word itself is meant to sound adorable when pronounced. No harsh edges, no sharp ‘t’ s or ‘d’s, or choking ‘k’s. It is meant to sound round, soft and cuddly. It evokes the image of a soft and pink bundle big eyes full of burning curiosity.
I wonder, genuinely wonder, if I was the only parent who was so betrayed by what awaited me at the end of 43 hours of labour. I was expecting a baby, in all its soft, cuddly and joyous glory. But what I got was instead…well…lets just say that I had meant ‘hellion’ in a figurative sense when I first nicknamed the fetus growing in me. The fact that the nurses had cheerfully excused my language when I reacted rather vulgarly at my little bundle of…joy have led me to believe that the entire idea of babies is a conspiracy.
Do not get me wrong, I would not trade my hellspawn for the world, but it would have been nice if there was a fine print that came with every positive pregnancy test, or a warning from the nurse at the very least. They were smiling as if they were delivering a cherub into my arms, just like in the movies, except in the movies, babies actually look like babies. Whereas in real life, infants only live up to the image of ‘babies’ after a minimum of 4 weeks.
Is there a particular reason why we have to uphold a romantic image of babies? Would it have killed us to openly admit that infants first come out looking more like a creature from alien and predators and would only later morph into their cuddly self? What are we trying to protect? The fragile psyche of parenthood? A common myth to ensure that we did not toss away our children at birth because they were, and yes, I dare use the word, ugly?
Because although it took all the effort in me to not blanch at the bundle I was holding, I was still in awe. In awe of the biological defences our DNA have created for us to ensure that newborns survived gestation and birth. Their skin is red for they have never taken a real breath of oxygen in the real world, the elongation of the head is caused by the bones in the skull overlapping to help the infant pass through birth channels. The lanugo exists to help keep the vernix in place, so that the baby’s delicate skin is not harmed by the amniotic fluids. Sure, they are unsightly to look at, but neither are our digestive fluids or white blood cells, but that does not make them any less important or amazing.
So I wonder again, as I hold my now cuddly hellion, careful not to snap its delicate spine, is the myth of the baby really necessary?
It is interesting, that while scenery blurs by when one is on the bicycle, the train or the bus, when on foot or on the plane, the view seems to fall in step with you, clinging onto the last vestiges of your person until it has satisfactorily expressed its entirety before peeling away. Not unlike the people in our lives. My feet however, are discovering a very different experience than my eyes.
I find it rather ironic that for all the greenery, cows and deers in Netherlands, that one cannot escape concrete pavements even in the Amsterdam Bos, the forest. I suppose for the overwhelming number of cyclists, this is a blessing rather than a curse, the skinny wheels of city-bikes would hardly prevail against the grassy, dirt-covered forest floors. Perhaps the me of the past, married to the baby pram, would have been far more appreciative of the flat, unforgiving concrete pavements. The me of the now however, old with creaky knees can only be grateful that the Sketchers I am wearing provided the amount of cushioning it advertised.
My pace is slow, or slower than what I am used to, because for once, I can afford it. I can afford to take in the sights, to fully inhabit myself and the environment I am in. Because for once, I am finally truly alone again. My pace is mine, not one that is slowed down to follow the pittering pattering footsteps of a toddler, not one that is giving chase to an energetic adolescent, or one that secretly trying to keep up with the strides of a healthy young man.
Just like in London, spring time here is beautiful. Both sunlight and the air are delightfully crisp, the cloudless blue sky made the forest seem even more vast. The early morning sun cast neat rows of shadows on the floor, almost grid-like in their beauty. I was told that the Dutch were most particular about their landscaping that even the distance between each tree was carefully measured. The branches of many trees were mostly still melancholically bare, not yet bursting with life and greenery. I continue my stroll, careful to shift my eyes away from the nests that sat on the naked tree-branches. Nests that are a little less empty than apartment I now occupy alone, again.
My feet picks up their pace, taking me away from those trees, away from those thoughts. After all, that is what I came here to do; here as in the Netherlands, not the forest. I came to the forest, walking more than my aged body should, for an entirely different reason.
At the size of 1000 hectares, the Amsterdam Bos is 3 times the size of Central Park, so while I do not doubt that there were many visitors like myself, human sightings were sparse. Yet as my path converges to my destination, I begin to see human life again. I double check my Google Map, just in case my legs have led me astray, but the pink petals that welcomed me were all the confirmation that I needed to tell that I have arrived. Kersenbloesempark, 400 Japanese Cherry Blossoms, displaced in foreign land to honor those who died in the 2011 earthquake in Japan. A tragic backstory to the technically heart-warming sight that was before me.
Couples and families littered the park, mother and children chasing each other between the trees. The elderly sipping warm tea as they watched on fondly. All of them, things I have lost or simply never had. I did not come here to be reminded of what I no longer had however. For the first time of the day, I stopped, my lone figure painting an incongruent presence in the picturesque blossom park.
I take out my phone, knowing just how touristy I looked in that instant, but it mattered not, this was what I came to do. To forge a connection. Framing the shot, I eagerly tap the shutter button and barely wait for picture to be properly saved before I call up the messaging app. Tapping on the only chatroom in the app, I add my image of the cherry blossoms to the ones of their sisters, sent to me all the way from Japan.
‘Oh wow, that’s beautiful. Where are you again?’
‘Netherlands, visiting your Godmother.’
‘Oh I see, we should visit her together some time!’
My heart leapt at that.
‘Yea, we should.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Just worry about yourself, you little hellion. You’re the one studying abroad.’
‘Not so little anymore. =P ’
‘Yes Mr 6 ft 3, please make sure your ego doesn’t get as big as you.’
‘Mom, you’re mean.’
‘I love you too.’
What I really wanted to say was ‘I miss you’, ‘Are you alright?’, ‘Will you come home for holidays?’, but I can’t. Because it’s hard work, pretending to be a mother who is immune to the empty-nest syndrome, it really is.
Father, part 1:
“Does he know about me?” The question was abrupt, then again, all questions posed by 6 year-olds tended to spring from nowhere.
“He was informed.” Her voice was level, a stark contrast to how it was when she told him about their her child.
“I’m pregnant.” It was a statement, but the light in her eyes betrayed her excitement.
The hands on the controller stilled for a second. One second was a long time in first-person shooter games, expectedly, the character on-screen died with a shot to the head. “Fuck…” He took in deep breath, filling up his lungs with as much air as it could take without bursting, and let out a huge sigh. “Get rid of it.”
The light in her eyes went out almost instantly, or if light could be crushed, that would have been a better world. Vaguely, she heard the game start-up again. She registered the tightening of her chest as sadness and the burning heat on her face as anger. Curious, she never experienced them simultaneously before. “I’m keeping it.”
What followed was the loud crash of the controller hitting the wall, followed by the table being flipped and a 20 minute long ‘lecture’ on how irresponsible she was, letting the team down because she wanted to change diapers; and that there was no place in e-sports for pregnant women and if she wanted to keep her place, she better get rid of the ‘parasite in her stomach’.
Throughout the violent tirade, she just stared, blinking owlishly at the man before her who had suddenly become a stranger.
‘Man, our kids are gonna hate us when they grow up. Having pro-gamers for parents is totally gonna suck. Can you imagine the embarrassment of losing to your parents in video games?’
Clearly she had taken his statement out of context.
Exhausted from his rant, he went to the kitchen to procure more fuel in the form of beer. She took that chance walk out of the house, her light footsteps belying the heaviness of her disappointment.
Disappointment in herself, for being naïve, for believing in him, for thinking that she deserved-
“He didn’t want me did he?” It was a statement, not a question.
“No he did not.” There was no reason to lie to him.
She braved herself for waterworks, but instead her son surprised her by reigning in his emotion. Oh sure they leaked, in the clenching of his tiny fists, shades of unspoken hurt spilling from his expressive brown eyes in place of unshed tears. But he remained silent, stubbornly trying squash his pain behind a mask of indifference. It was no doubt an effort to emulate her air of aloofness. Endearing as it was however, she did not want the light in his eyes to go out the way hers did.
She picked him up and set him on her lap. “No he did not. But I did. I wanted you, I wanted you more than anything in the world. And maybe I’m selfish, because you never asked to be born, but I wanted you, I wanted to be your mother. And you know what? That was the best decision I ever made in my life. And he’s an idiot for not wanting you because you are awesome.”
He was too young to know that what he was witnessing was called conviction, all he knew was that he had never seen his mother’s brown eyes shine so brightly, so fiercely.
“Even when I was screaming and crying baby?” He tried to joke, mask abandoned.
She wiped away the tears leaking down his face with her bare fingers, “Especially when you were a screaming and crying baby. You were so loud, the neighbors actually came over to see if I was abusing you, you little hellion.”
He stuck his tongue out at the mention of his unofficial nickname. “If I’m a hellion, what does that make you?”
“The big hellion of course,” she declared with unabashed pride.
And he could not help it, he laughed.
He had the best mom in the world.
—
Father, part 2:
There was no doubt that the young boy before him belonged to his sister. He looked like a carbon copy of her when she was his age, minus the obvious gender difference. But it took two to tango, and he could not fathom just who the boy’s father was. It was as if his sister’s chromosomes functioned as she did, systematically pushing everyone’s influence out of her life. There was no trace of another person’s DNA in this boy’s genetic making.
“That’s my dad,” the boy pointed the TV where the finals for the e-sports competition was being broadcasted.
“He knows?” He asked his sister, bewildered.
“Of course he knows, he deserves to know who his father is,” she replied without even looking up from the soup she was stirring.
The strangled silence her usually (and unfortunately) loquacious brother was displaying told her that he was probably doing a very good imitation of their now-dead pet gold-fish, Mr Bobs. Funny, she thought. Her, the walking kitchen disaster was making dinner and yet her brother was instead freaking out over her son knowing who his father was.
“But…” But would the kid not wonder, why his father did not live with them, why his father did not contact him and possibly does not even know about him…
“Mom says that I’m entitled to my own opinions as much as I am entitled to the truth.”
Dear god, his sister might as well have cloned herself, the 11-year-old sounded exactly like her.
“But, aren’t you bothered that you don’t have a father?”
The boy looked at him with that oh-so familiar indifferent gaze, “Say he knew about me, that doesn’t mean he’ll like me. Say he likes me, that doesn’t guarantee that he’ll be a good father. I’m happy, I’m healthy, I’m loved. Why would it bother me that I live a good life? The society’s definition for a typical nuclear family is way too overrated in my opinion.”
He whipped his head around to stare at his sister accusingly. She translated his scathing look as, ‘could you not have let him retain at least a modicum of childlike innocence!?’
Sighing, she looked up from the Bolognese sauce she was stirring, “Kiddo, what did we agree on the last time?”
“Don’t go around breaking the fragile world-view of narrowminded adults?” He smiled like the cat that ate the canary.
She sighed again, this time with exasperation but also more fondness. What was it with children and their ability to elicit simultaneously conflicting emotions. “Yes, that. Now go watch your TV…and don’t be so smug about breaking your uncle!” She threw in as she saw the shit-eating grin on her son’s face.
Oh her little hellion.
“You, are a terrible mother,” her brother grumbled under his breath, barely loud enough for mother and son duo to catch it.
If she and her son happened to high-fived each other under the table when her brother’s dinner ended up on his shirt instead of his mouth…well let’s just chalk that up to coincidence shall we?
—
Mother
Janie has been a teacher for close to 14 years now. In her 14 years of being an English teacher, she has read some pretty…shocking essays. Some were disturbing, others were obscene. This one however…absurd was probably the closest word she could find to describe how she felt, but even that failed to do the essay justice. Granted, it was very well-written, not that she expected anything less from her star pupil. He has always had a way with words.
It was just that contextually…
Title: What I want to be.
I feel like women, when they become mothers, become something else entirely.
There is a strength that mothers have that I cannot help but admire.
I am not a daughter, but there was a particular line in Sarah Kay’s poem, ‘If I should have a daughter’, that was incredibly powerful for me.
“And when they finally hand you heartache, when they slip war and hatred under your door and offer you handouts on street-corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.”
They have met my mother.
The father who decided he was better off without me. The discriminatory parents who would not let me play with their children because I had one instead of two parents. The close-minded teacher who tried to get me removed from my mother’s custody because I said that not all children needed a father. The judgmental neighbors who spread malicious rumors when I walked home holding the hands of another boy.
They met my mother, and she rewrote their world order.
It almost seems like when you become a mother, you have rights.
Actually, that may not be the right word. It is not that you have rights but that you give yourself such rights.
Motherhood to me empowers a woman. The moment she becomes responsible for a tiny human’s life, she will fight tooth and nail to protect that life, stand up to world even if necessary.
Nothing stands between a mother and her child.
That is powerful. That is something I admire.
And the source of that power, I believe, is love.
Mothers, to me, have the purest, most unconditional love in the world.
Therefore, I want to be a mother, to be someone like that and be such a person to another life.
It is selfish, and biologically impossible. But I want to be a mother.
