I Remember

Watching my child grow up is achingly painful. I look at old pictures and coo over how cute she was, but when I look at her wild hair and chubby cheeks, I remember so much more than how adorable she was back then.

I remember how much I was hurting.

I remember how I spent my pregnancy in the darkest of dark places, wishing that the parasite in my womb would kill me before it emerged.

I remember how I fumbled through her first few months, awkwardly trying to feel maternal but mostly just wondering why it was that she felt more like something that someone had shoved into my arms and told me to keep alive at all costs.

I remember trying to pretend that some part of me wasn't always detached from "motherhood."

I remember trying to remember who *I* was, as I struggled to be a good-enough-wife and not-horrible-mother.

I remember realizing how awful and wrong it was that my two year old was stroking my hair and patting and my back and telling me, "Mama, it's okay," while I sobbed to myself, claw marks on my arms as I tried to make my pain something that I could look at, even if only for a few minutes.

I remember trying to pretend that I wasn't completely changing her world, her life, by bringing her home - to my home - away from what she knew as home. Away from the man she still calls Baba, even though he doesn't call her, ever.

I remember telling myself that I was doing this for her, so that she could grow up healthier and happier, but knowing deep down that I was doing this for me. I was being selfish. I was doing this so that *I* would be happier.

I remember the exhilaration I felt, being away from him. I remember being so excited to take her to meet my friends, to go to the parks of my childhood, to pet the goats and have hot chocolate at Tim Horton's.

I remember still feeling guilty. Just a little.

I remember taking her to Malaysia, where we went to live with my parents.

I remember the highs - the daily happinesses of spending most nights snuggled between them, my daughter squishing herself in insistently, her little afro wilder than ever; our holidays to new places, our toes curling in the sand, my dad making her shriek with half-laughter, half-terror as he splashed water on her; our excursions to farmer's markets and local masaajid in Ramadan, my brothers keeping a watchful eye on her; when she would accompany me to my Islamic Studies classes and squeak shyly to Shaykh Isam; the blissfulness of being *me,* of having my family, of giving my child the security I once had.

I remember the lows. Arguments, tears, bitter words as I tried to make decisions for my - for her - future. Using her name as a defence, claiming that I wanted her to have something more than this unrealistic limbo. A part of me was still being selfish. A part of me believed it. Either way, there was too much anger, too many tears. I don't remember where she was, then. Probably safely playing with her toys, or splashing in the tub. I hope she doesn't remember my fights.

I remember the new chapter starting. Coming back to Canada, beginning anew. Rocky, at first - a flight that we were never allowed to board; a rush of panic; trying to find a place to live; the awkwardness of being a new wife, in unstable circumstances, with a child who didn't understand what was happening, not quite.

I remember that first apartment of my own. Our own. I cried a lot in those days, for different reasons. I hope she doesn't remember those tears, either.

I remember how we snuggled every night, just the two of us, her hair curling up into my nose.

I remember her cheerfulness every morning, her sternness over my wardrobe choices, her good-natured patience with my procrastination and fumbled attempts at adulting.

I remember the excitement of every Jumu'ah, as she and I burned bukhoor and ran out the door to catch the khutbah on time; the joy of seeing our friends at the masjid; the tradition we built for ourselves of bubble tea and treats and walking around downtown and then finally having dinner at my grandparents' house.

I remember how I would push her in the stroller, complaining about how heavy she was, trudging to the library. She ignored me and settled in even more firmly, smug in the knowledge that I would keep pushing.

I remember how I would jolt her out of that comfort and take her, for months at a time, to another country, another home. Another family. She liked her new siblings, mostly. She didn't like not being with me very much.

I remember desperately trying to figure things out, trying to impose my dream-ideas onto a very different reality - a confusing one, a frustrating one, a hurtful one, sometimes. It wasn't all bad, but it was new, and different, and I didn't really know what I was doing.

I remember not really being much of a mother. I remember more guilt, more knowledge that I was being selfish, more feelings of being too absorbed. Too many adult things happening. I hope she doesn't remember those days.

I remember the relief of going back to our apartment - and to our second one, after that. I remember she and I settling back in to our own rhythms, our back-and-forth banter, our almost-sibling sniping. I remember our baking - cupcakes and brownies and cookies. I remember Kindergarten and trying to feel like a Real Homeschooling Mom. I don't remember doing a very good job of it.

I remember putting her through more changes. More frustrations. More confusions. I was being selfish, I know. I hope she doesn't remember it.

I remember her first day of public school, my first day at work. More changes - not bad ones, necessarily. A new house - not just our apartment, now. She had full-time siblings now, and I had four more full-time children, and a full-time cowife. Not a full-time husband, though. A full-time struggle, not without its bright spots, but still.

I remember trying to learn how to be more of a mother to children who didn't see me as one. I remember my child's look of hurt as I doled out attempts at maternal affection and fairness to children who hadn't always been mine. I remember not knowing how to be the right kind of mother to anyone.

I remember slowly getting a grip on things - sometimes. I remember falling, many times. I remember my daughter saying, "I miss when it was just us and we lived by the ocean." I remember her saying, "You work too much." I remember her saying, "Do you love them more than me? You're always too busy."

I remember too many things that I wish I didn't.

But I also remember the other night, when she crawled into bed with me, and curled up around me, and I remembered maybe I can still make good memories. With her. For her.

Maybe when she grows up, and looks at the pictures, she'll remember me, being happy, with her.

I hope she remembers that.