Motherhood, At Last

After nearly a lifetime (hers) of me struggling with motherhood, of not "feeling like a mother," of having my attention pulled in too many directions, of my emotional energy exhausted by my own depression and trauma... I am discovering that finally, I think I feel like a mother.

It catches me off-guard: a sudden emotional blow to the gut as I look at 9yo and remember when her cheeks were toddler-chubby, and I didn't kiss and squeeze and bite them enough; my resolve to do so now, even if she wails and squirms away and declares that I'm embarrassing her.

The tug in my belly, the phantom umbilical cord that ties her to me more strongly now than when she was growing in my womb, to check on her, to watch her as she bends her head over her mus'haf or squints in concentration as she paints, to snuggle her at night and breathe her in.

The surge of protectiveness that leaps within me if I hear someone speak to her too sharply or if another child is too aggressive with her; struggling to know when I should let her handle her problems and when I should jump in, maternal Ursa instincts roaring.

Even my frustrations feel more maternal now, less existential crisis and more "Pay attention to your homework!" or "BRUSH YOUR TEETH before you eat breakfast!" An argument over her clothing is less likely to set me reeling backwards into self-doubt and resentment at my destiny.

I pretend to want her to grow up and be more responsible, but mostly I am all too glad to let her snuggle in bed with me at night, to rub her back and pull her closer, hating myself for the years I had lost sobbing myself to sleep instead of cradling her.

When she was younger - when I was younger - it was hard for me to remember that she was mine, flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood; I felt vague guilt that I did not miss her absence the way other mothers did, that I was relieved of her burden.

Now, when she spends weekends with my parents, there is a sharp emptiness in the hollow of my belly, a tightness in my throat, that eases only when I hurry back from work and reassure myself that she is still here, still mine, flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood.

"Is that your daughter?" other women would ask me politely, cooing over her curls and shy eyes. I would fumble over my answer - "Yes, I am her mother" felt like a lie on my tongue, even as my uterus tightened in memory of the hours I spent in labour, crying helplessly.

"Is that your sister?" people ask me now, and I shake my head, pull her close, and say, "No, this is my child." It still feels strange to claim motherhood, when for so many years, I questioned my own maternity. But then she says, "That's my mom!" and it feels, perhaps, true.

Other mothers complain about how suffocated they feel by their children, how much they long to get a break. I can understand - I would want a break from their kids too. But mine? I'm only just getting to love her as I should have all those years ago. I am greedy for my child.

She has always known that I never wanted children. She was, after all, the one who patted my face anxiously when she was two years old and I was too old to be sobbing hysterically at my then-husband's insistence on having another child.

"It's okay, Mama," she told me, "Stop crying, Mama." I couldn't stop crying, then, and it wasn't okay, then, but eventually, I did stop crying, and I made things almost-okay, for me and for her.

Now she knows that even if I never wanted her then, I want her now, more than anything and anyone. "Who loves you the most?" I ask her every night, and she says dutifully, "Allah!" "And then who loves you the most in the whole wide world?" "You do."
And I do.

The Softest Armour

The women of my family wear the softest armour: the most tender of cotton dresses, the most delicate chiffon scarves, the sweetest of smiles. The women of my family are the strongest women I have ever known - even the gentlest of aunties has a spine of unbent steel.

It is only when I visit first one, and then the other, of my elders in hospital that I see them terrifying vulnerable: their soft, impenetrable armour removed; their elegant dresses and beautiful scarves gone, leaving them defenseless in hospital gowns and worn pajamas.

I feel ashamed of myself, almost - I want to avert my eyes, to not see my elders so old, where once I had seen them as simply, eternally, elder without aging. Knuckles grown swollen from arthritis; wisps of hair, before always meticulously tucked away beneath their scarves, suddenly seen, wilted, falling out of cotton hair caps; shoulders trembling where once they were so firm; flashes of pain in eyes that I had only ever looked into and found beatific serenity.

The women of my family wear the softest armour, and I want nothing more than to drape them once again in their gentle glory - to be reassured by the whisper of silk against my skin when I bend to kiss their cheeks; to touch the dignified wool of their cardigans, embroidered with thread as strong as the unseen filaments of their own spider-silk wills - enduring with beauty no matter the decades of marriage, of children, of immigration, of losing and finding and building and slipping away and too many changes, too fast.

I wish I knew the women of my family better. I wish I knew their stories the way I know their food: pineapple steaks and spiced chicken pastries and strawberry butter scones and melting moments butter biscuits - family favourites flavoured by their histories, unknown to me.

I wish I knew what lay under their soft armour before age and illness lay them bare to me; I wish I knew what weapons they carried into their daily battles; I wish I knew what enemies they faced, within and without; I wish I knew how they became so soft and strong.

The women of my family wear the softest armour. I wonder if I will inherit their grace and their delicacy and their iron wills and gentle touches and their deft hands at making biryani and mithai and the memories of their homeland and family still so far away.

The women of my family wear the softest armour. I want to bury my face in their scarves, draw their dresses over my head, feel their steadfastness wrap gently around my bones, touch my fingertips to their grace and draw it in, inhale their dignity into my muscle memory.

My armour is hard and brittle, not spider-silk-soft or chiffon-kiss-gentle. My armour is stiff and dented and has the hard colours of too-bold-lipstick and dark-denim-jeans. My armour is biting humour and anger ill-contained.

The women of my family wear the softest armour. Perhaps, one day, my armour will soften too.