On Being A Working Mother To A Toddler
As I post this, I have a 16-month-old ferocious human being tugging at the hem of my pants, verbalising his need to be held and pampered, in an extremely serious tone while throwing his arms up in the air.
"I demand your attention, you mother of mine," his needy yet adamant tone seems to suggest.
For over a year now, this has been my reality. One that I haven't fully yet come to terms with. This whole half-baked business of being half mum, half writer, half myself. When I watch my son stutter and mumble words like appa and amma, I smile out of sheer wonder and pride for a second, and then fade out into the memories of life before him - insouciant, almost untouched by fear of the mundane. I was wild and free. I never had to leave the shower half done, soap suds on my bare back, running to pacify a cranky toddler. I did not have someone hanging down my breasts every night, pushing my already sleep-deprived self into insomnia. Life was easier, it seemed happier.
However, with the next shrill noise of steel pots and pans being dropped or even better, his grandparents letting out quick yelps on their toes being ridden over by his midget bike, I am snapped out of a vacant daze and brought back to my bitter-sweet reality. And in this real world, I am the superhuman who can soothe a cranky toddler with just a few pats and kisses, and yet feel guilty about not having done enough. I am the woman torn between the ever demanding duties of a mother, spouse, and daughter-in-law. I am left thinking of my son while I work, and of the often unrecognised joy in organised work while I rock him to sleep. So far, for me, it has been all about this constant disharmony between the past and the now; between raising a living, breathing human being while raising myself as an ambitious and independent woman. I'm dashing clumsily between cleaning his pooper butt and finishing a long overdue article. And I am tired, to tell you the truth.
This constant discord, this constant state of loathing and beating myself up over half done chores and assignments are slowly eating away at my mental, emotional and physical health, and I feel them consume me whole every night. Guilt, shame, anger, frustration, a little bit of everything serenading into my thoughts, leaving me anxious and worried. It's almost like I have let the reins loose, having lost all control over my wagon.
But then, there is hope. Dawning every morning, like the bright, healing rays of the sun. Hope is the elixir that makes one forget the bad stuff, the impossible, the uncontrollable. And so when it dawns, I'm okay with being mediocre, I'm okay with the fumbling, falling and failing. Then, I believe I can handle a reckless toddler and earn a living, even though I might botch it up a little here and there. When hope dawns, I am ready to embrace my flaws. Because then, I believe, I couldn't have had it any better.
"I demand your attention, you mother of mine," his needy yet adamant tone seems to suggest.
For over a year now, this has been my reality. One that I haven't fully yet come to terms with. This whole half-baked business of being half mum, half writer, half myself. When I watch my son stutter and mumble words like appa and amma, I smile out of sheer wonder and pride for a second, and then fade out into the memories of life before him - insouciant, almost untouched by fear of the mundane. I was wild and free. I never had to leave the shower half done, soap suds on my bare back, running to pacify a cranky toddler. I did not have someone hanging down my breasts every night, pushing my already sleep-deprived self into insomnia. Life was easier, it seemed happier.
However, with the next shrill noise of steel pots and pans being dropped or even better, his grandparents letting out quick yelps on their toes being ridden over by his midget bike, I am snapped out of a vacant daze and brought back to my bitter-sweet reality. And in this real world, I am the superhuman who can soothe a cranky toddler with just a few pats and kisses, and yet feel guilty about not having done enough. I am the woman torn between the ever demanding duties of a mother, spouse, and daughter-in-law. I am left thinking of my son while I work, and of the often unrecognised joy in organised work while I rock him to sleep. So far, for me, it has been all about this constant disharmony between the past and the now; between raising a living, breathing human being while raising myself as an ambitious and independent woman. I'm dashing clumsily between cleaning his pooper butt and finishing a long overdue article. And I am tired, to tell you the truth.
This constant discord, this constant state of loathing and beating myself up over half done chores and assignments are slowly eating away at my mental, emotional and physical health, and I feel them consume me whole every night. Guilt, shame, anger, frustration, a little bit of everything serenading into my thoughts, leaving me anxious and worried. It's almost like I have let the reins loose, having lost all control over my wagon.
But then, there is hope. Dawning every morning, like the bright, healing rays of the sun. Hope is the elixir that makes one forget the bad stuff, the impossible, the uncontrollable. And so when it dawns, I'm okay with being mediocre, I'm okay with the fumbling, falling and failing. Then, I believe I can handle a reckless toddler and earn a living, even though I might botch it up a little here and there. When hope dawns, I am ready to embrace my flaws. Because then, I believe, I couldn't have had it any better.
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