For the Mother in all of us

In the middle of the night, when my children wake up yet another time exactly at the moment I had just drifted into sleep, I kiss each of them before I feed them. This is to remind myself that no matter how many thousands of time I have fed them, this one is still an act of love. It has to be the same calm for them as I would want if I was anxious. If I was anxious 50,000 times, I would want that calm those number of times, without questions or judgment. Talking about unconditional love is easy, providing it is an altogether different thing.

I don’t remember crying when my twins were taken out feet-first from my inside and placed on my chest. I remember feeling deflated. I remember being more curious than emotional, as if I knew them from so long and just had to see what they looked like. Like the latter wouldn’t even matter. Like a blind date in which we had talked to and known each other since decades together, ready to say a mother-kid form of ‘I do’.

But if I had a nickel for every person who started telling me that my kids are hungry, I would be (one more) mother-with-the-largest-nickels. I wanted to tell the world that my heart is connected to theirs by a thick invisible thread and that my intuition and gut are more accurate for them than it is for me right now. It felt like the world was tone deaf in the initial days because it couldn’t hear the high frequencies on which my love existed. Even with the world class care available to me, my children were taken away from me when I wanted them in my arms and I was told to rest rather than make arrangements through which I could rest with them and also provide for them and their health/safety. ‘You had a caesarean, they are two kids, you better rest, your children aren’t getting enough milk from you anyway’ – so many heartbreaking comments made so casually from people around. I wanted to tell them to not have opinions, to tell me how great I am doing, to try to ask me what did I need on my own terms, to understand that they might know more about childbirth, more about medicine, childcare – but these two tiny tot-dots here? Nopes, I knew more. Period.

A few good people, good doctors around made all the difference. Nursing was always special, but I cannot forget the day I fed both my children together strutting them up on my left and right side. It felt like my back could break, but it also felt magical, like a superpower. It still does at eight months now, half the backbreak. But I am so grateful to mamas – far and distant who create online content, who counsel physically or digitally, those who are part of mother communities – who keep a mother’s love and the agency of the child at the centerstage. As a mother, I am only realising now how easy it is to overcome the needs, wishes of a child who hasn’t found her words yet. And I wonder how much that teaches me about being an administrator – not only about sectors like education/nutrition, but also how power dynamics should work in the real world.

I now know why so many amazing women don’t make it to boardrooms and behind important desks, even if it is something they would want to do. Sacrifice is glorious when it comes to women, especially mothers. They are busy being amazing at the unpaid job of being a mother with their partners not understanding their need of ambition, their desire for free time or self-care; and always assuming they cannot provide for the child as well as the mother. And if the mother stubbornly decides to go for it, she must do both (Think of the women who work in our homes, who we meet in informal jobs around us and even some of those we work with. Think of the careers of our mothers). Of course, what we easily forget is that a happy child is to be raised by a deeply happy family, where everyone feels equally respected, valued. Sit with a happy mother and she will tell you about how her family contributes in her well-being and how she feels heard and happy at home and work. Can we reflect an understanding of this in the policies we make?

No motherhood experience would be complete without talking about those days where it feels like we would lose our sanity. I have had so many days of those. Where I am awake at 4 am, my hair all ruffled, my body in a limbo state and my heart and mind almost under depression – thinking about when will this night end. These are days when I have to go to office in the next 6 hours and I don’t know how. It was not easy to tell my husband I couldn’t do all of it – it made me feel I wasn’t enough. But constant communication has made us reach to the point where I am writing this article on my ‘day-off’ when he understands he needs to be available today and I can do what pleases my soul, so that my kisses to my children tonight are extra-special. Because I am happy someone loves and cares for me too, and understands my desire to reflect on what being a mother means to me.

So, then, what has motherhood taught me? That rebirth can happen. That I can be all someone might want, that I could be all their eyes were looking for. That breastfeeding might be natural, but it might also be a learned skill. It is a science and enigma combined into one. That it doesn’t and shouldn’t pain. That nursing to sleep is a superpower. That sleep deprivation is real, but it is survivable not just with the love I have for my children, but only if it is supplemented by the actions of love from my village. That this help will sometimes define what kind of a mother, how kind of a mother I can be to my children. And that it is the one thing that changes and better-s everything. That I cannot do everything alone even if I want to. That I shouldn’t do everything alone even if I want to. That I need help. That I need to learn how to ask for it. That my husband (partner) always meant well, even at times he couldn’t understand what I was going through. How could he? That he needed to be told, however, what equal partnership can look like. That he could and could want to be the second mother, sometimes the first. That our fathers model fatherhood for our husbands and they will model fatherhood for our children. That children are raised by intuition, but information and knowledge don’t hurt anyone and create a great foundation for intuition. That children cry and our hearts break but sometimes I will not be able to do anything about it except hold hands with my child and tell him that I will not leave him because I am scared of heartbreak. That motherhood (parenthood) is wild. You can curse under your breath at one point and think about where the heck is your life going because you are so tied, and after five seconds, you look at your child smile and suddenly you are thankful for all of it and you don’t care where your life is going. Because if this kid can melt my heart like that, dude, it must be going somewhere right? That love is so special that it wouldn’t have mattered to either of us if these weren’t our children. That I want time to be still but I also want to see these goose bunnies grow, can someone please take up a science project for this? That mummahood was when I understood grief and gratitude, fierceness and vulnerability, melancholy and peace, attachment and my need to detach – all of these can co-exist. That my love can be more than my capacity to love and still not feel enough. That we are and we can all be metaphorical form of mothers. and your sex doesn’t matter.

And that if you are that mother, go kiss your children and don’t forget to save that warmth in your heart. Use it to light up the world and make it a better place. I promise you, you are doing so great and you matter so much more than your mind can even fathom.

That if you meet a mother, don’t forget to ask her what she needs on her own terms. Promise her, show her how great she is doing and how she matters so much more than her mind can even fathom.