On Motherhood

Coconut yoghurt – I can’t begin to tell you just how yummy this is! I made it myself using one can of coconut milk, which I stuck in the freezer overnight, and removed first thing in the morning. I let it thaw for a couple of hours, then put the half frozen coconut milk in my blender along with ¼ cup of kefir, some honey, and a lot of unsweetened coconut flakes.

Being a parent is one of the greatest things in life. Most parents know that. It’s an endless journey that can produce a deep, wondrous sense of fulfilling joy. Parenthood takes you places and you meet with and talk to people (aka other parents and their children) whom you most likely would have never met with or talked to otherwise. If you’ve never been taken outside of yourself and your own experience before in life, then parenthood will do it like nothing else. Someone said that having children is like “before and after Jesus”. A watershed. Before I had my son, I used to think that “I” ended where my skin met the elements. Then along came this new person – my child – someone I didn’t know, someone with a mind and will of his own, but in whose body my own heart miraculously also seems to beat. At all times. I taste my son’s joys as if they are my own. And his sorrows. And his hurt. And stronger, sometimes, than I taste my own.

Motherhood doesn’t come easy to me. I see other moms and I am constantly amazed at how easy they make it seem. I’m not talking about the daily puzzle of schedules; I’m talking about the daily upbringing of one’s child. Rearing him or her. Mothering him or her. To me, that is the most difficult thing I can think of, a challenge that I’m constantly brooding over. That I love my son goes without saying. But that love is a not an easy sort of love. I wish it were. You know those images of smiling mothers? The images and statues of Virgin Mary? I think of those and I wonder, is that it? A tender, patient kind of love?

The love I have for my son is multi-facetted and deeply complex. Tender and patient, sure, at times, but far from always. My love for my son is mixed with fear, worry, guilt, and yes, sometimes even shame. This is hard to talk about. It’s hard to admit. Because motherhood can sometimes look like it’s all about getting organic food in your kid’s lunch bag or getting them to school on time. Am I a bad mother for throwing things he’s made out? For wanting to throw some of it out? For being impatient with him? Sometimes I get angry with my son. We spend a lot of time together, just the two of us. We’re different – in spite of that joint heartbeat I talked about – he is of one temperament, I’m of another. We argue, we push each other’s buttons.

“I’m the one who gets to decide,” I say sternly. I am your parent.”

“I don’t care,” he pouts.

I hiss at this, and leave the room. Too upset to speak, I feel my anger rise.

To make matters worse, I’m the bad guy in our home. My husband is the good guy. He is at work too much to be the bad guy also. Therefore that’s on me. I scream. I yell. I force my son to do his homework. But sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I am too tired to scream and yell and force. Then, late at night, I lie sleepless thinking: Which is worse? To force or to not force?

Some parents want to give their children the kind of childhood they themselves had. Some parents want to remedy their own childhoods by giving their children all that which they themselves never had. Some parents do a mix of the two.

I think that a person who feels passionate about doing something is a happy person. I’ve written about happiness before here, so I won’t go into it again. But I think this goes for children as well. I think the best we, as parents, can do, is to help our children find passion in life, because passion will lead to happiness. How do we do that? Leading by example, I think. If we show that we’re happy and passionate about life, then hopefully our children learn just by watching. 

"I love you, Mamma," he says late at night when it's time for bed.

He's soft and beautiful and smells like a peach.

"I love you, too," I say. But the words are too lame for how I really feel.

"You're the best Mamma in the world," he says before he drifts off to sleep.

"No, I'm not," I think. "But nobody could care for, cherish, think of and want you more than I do."