Month: August 2020

‘The Favourite’

‘Which one is your favourite?’ a woman asks when I tell her I have three children.

‘See!’ she says, when I pause. ‘You do have a favourite!’ 

I once read an article whereby a mother confessed; ‘I don’t love my children the same, I love them differently.’ Like their individuality was some kind of revelation. I too, love my children differently, for their own unique qualities.

As I consider how to respond to this woman’s question, it occurs to me that, perhaps, the question itself is more telling. In the absence of a response, the woman adds, ‘I was one of three – and my parents didn’t love us equally.’

It is my belief that parents, as a rule, have only the best of intentions when dishing out their love. But isn’t everything a matter of perspective?  

I can serve up two perfectly identical peanut-butter sandwiches, with sliced apple and a piece of cheese. Yet our eldest son will immediately form an opinion about which of the two identical lunches is the biggest, and thus the best.  

‘Who do you love the most?’ he asks me one night, as I tuck him into bed. 

I hesitate; a question to be answered with care.  

‘You can’t answer the question, can you?’ our son says – because I hesitate or because he’s asked this question before. ‘But you love us all the same, don’t you?’

I nod – Though, I guess, in hindsight, it would be more accurate to say; ‘It’s true, I love you all so much my heart could burst. But I love you for the different ways you enhance my life; which, like my love, are wholly immeasurable.’  

During our usual morning walk, I comment to my husband how beautiful it is to watch our boys run. How freeing. The wind in their hair, their eager, quickened steps as they come to share with us their discovery of finding worms in the gutter. And the way they describe the worms brought out by the rain. Purple and pink with sections of gold. I never thought of worms in this way, nor would I have noticed them there in the first place were it not for the boys’ discovery. The worms, perhaps, a metaphor for the ways our children enrich our life. For the things they make us see. 

I recall a kinder mum describing her son as a ‘Unit’. I hadn’t fully understood the term, but from her tone, the glint in her eye, I understood that she was still working him out. And that her discovery of him, of his own unique self, was a delight to witness. The beauty of having children; what we may discover in knowing them. 

My mother tells of when I was born, a daughter after three sons. My father looked at his newborn, a chubby baby in pink and said, ‘Who’s this?’ – Clearly, he was still working me out. And I like to think that, mostly, I’ve surprised and delighted him ever since.  

Though our eldest is only seven, I know that sometimes – maybe because he’s always been big for his age or because he’s the oldest child – we are probably guilty of treating him older than he actually is; expecting him to be responsible, reliable, forgetting he’s still very much just a little boy with a fantastic sense of fun and a wonderful imagination. Sometimes he can be infused with so much energy that the best thing for him is to run laps outside. I love that about him. His energy, his enthusiasm. His zest for life.

Our second child has always been fiercely independent, stubborn, affectionate, extremely charismatic. An interesting mix. Stubbornly, my husband and I both credit each other for our son’s stubbornness. Whether he is in the midst of asserting his own independence or giving one of the best cuddles I may ever experience in my life, he is so endearing that it is impossible to ever imagine this ‘baby in the corner’.

Our third (and final) child holds the position of the youngest and the only girl. She is demanding and beautiful, playful and sweet. Possessing qualities similar to our second child that had me wondering how on earth we would manage not one, but two strong-willed children; and yet she is entirely her own person. While, at times, the parent in me struggles to keep up with her fast pace, her determined, head-strong nature; the feminist in me loves that she is a girl who knows her own mind. That she is capable and smart and demands to be heard. That she does not fit any of the pre-conceived notions I may have had about how different it might be to raise a girl. It is an absolute joy to be continually delighted and surprised by her. And I’m sure, I’m still working her out.

My mother says of her mother that she had this ability to make each child feel as though she was their mum; to each feel the uniqueness of their own special bond between mother and child. A tradition that continues, I believe, as I, myself, have been pulled up by my brother for referring to our mother as ‘my mum’. 

While often, I must ask for our children’s patience, their acceptance that there are three of them whose demands I must meet; it is my hope that all three of our children will feel my love in its own unique form, and that in years to come, they will remember, that I am, was, and forever shall be; their mum. 

Time and Space

For a mother, the term ‘Me Time,’ doesn’t quite cut it. It implies time away from children spent luxuriously, a bubble bath by candlelight, a quiet spot to read a book for hours on end; an indulgence. What I’m talking about here is ‘Space.’ Not a luxury, but a basic need. Time out to take a few quiet breaths, to regroup from tantrums, whinging; from any and all of the demands of having young children. The last time I felt this way, I had just given birth to our third child. 

‘There is no space,’ I said to my husband. ‘There is nowhere for me to just be.’ 

And even when I sought space in our small, small house, taking a shower, letting the hot water wash away the day, preparing me for another night of broken sleep, there was no solitude. The boys bursting through the door. My husband hovering, trying to settle an unsettled baby simply in need of her mother. Even if no one actually entered my physical space, I felt the demands weighing heavy on my shoulders. I couldn’t relax; what if they needed me? 

In support of her staff, the principal at the first school I ever worked at, a Catholic school, famously spoke of giving her staff ‘time and space.’ Gently encouraging us in the direction of change. 

Time and space. Two things I had in short supply when I first became a mother of three. ‘I don’t have time for my other children,’ I said, as I felt the dust of mother’s guilt settle with all my energies invested in ensuring our youngest baby thrived. 

Despite the exhaustion, the deprivation of personal space, I tried to find the humour, the joy in the everyday. 

Dancing in the kitchen, in a zombie-like state while sterilising bottles, I gave the last remaining part of myself to my two other children after feeding and caring for our baby – because if I didn’t laugh I would have cried. My eldest son, stood in the kitchen bemused by new dance moves which went like this; ‘And feed’ – arms out in front, ‘Express’ – arms above, ‘And sterilise. And sterilise’ – feet to the side, feet to the side. Because these were the actions of my every waking hour; feeding, expressing, or sterilising; all in desperate need to steadily increase our newborn’s weight. 

‘Mummy’s a cow,’ my eldest son said cheekily, laughing at the rhythmic sucking sound of the breast pump.

This was funny; and not. Because for the first few months of our daughter’s life, life was hard, very hard. Advice was confusing and conflicting. Express at every feed and top up every feed with a bottle. Ditch the expressing and persist feeding ‘naturally.’ I was not a person in my own right, but a vessel for food and sustenance. And this went on for months.

Already a mother to two beautiful boys, I knew how to ‘mother’. And yet our daughter provided challenges I’d never had to face with the boys. 

When our second child was born, my obstetrician visited me the morning after the delivery, declaring ‘Look at this lady of leisure’. 

Sitting up in bed, engrossed in a good book, I had to remind myself I’d just given birth. I almost felt guilty for using up the hospital’s resources when I was clearly capable of doing this mothering thing on my own. 

After the birth of our third child, however, I was shell-shocked. Things weren’t going smoothly as they had before. I buzzed the nurses, daily, seeking assistance with feeding, checking our attachment; because neither baby, nor I, seemed to have any clue what we were doing. After being discharged – our baby narrowly avoiding being admitted due to insufficient weight gain – baby and I attended extra weigh-ins, breastfeeding consultations, community group breastfeeding sessions. I engaged in copious amounts of anxiety-driven research, experimenting with bottle teats, adjusting the amount of top-up feeds, experimenting with baby-led attachment; encouraging the baby’s natural instincts to find the breast. But ultimately, it was a matter of time, and space, until baby and I were able to consolidate a good feeding relationship. 

I wasn’t alone. My husband, is, and was, incredibly supportive. I have very hands-on and doting parents, a close circle of friends and family. But the feeding issues I experienced with our third child were mine to bear. 

Was it worth it? Persisting with breastfeeding for so long, and at such a personal expense to me, and my other children? 

Ultimately, that is not the point here. The point is that this was an incredibly hard time in my life; that while living through it, I felt as though the struggle would never end. 

I remind myself of this time – so difficult, I’d rather forget – to remember that things will, and do, improve. To understand, and know, that while in the throes of a Lockdown that is only becoming more stringent, more difficult to bear; that things will, and do, improve.

In those early days with a newborn, I understood that life would not simply go on in the same way forever. But the days were long and hard, physically exhausting, emotionally taxing, it was difficult to imagine a different reality than the one I was facing. I had to remind myself of the silver-lining, work hard to appreciate my three beautiful blessings; each child filling our home, my heart, with love. 

As I look back on those crazy, hazy days of newborn chaos, of mothering more children than I have hands; as I watch each child develop their own interests, demonstrate their own clever attributes, engage in some small act of kindness; the eldest one helping the middle one find socks, the middle one ensuring whatever he has to eat, there’s enough to share, both boys letting their sister ‘hog the ball’ when we play basketball, understanding she’s far too young to understand the rules; I appreciate ‘time and space,’ in all its forms.

This house is a small house. And some days, its smallness, our close confines, works to amplify the chaos; a zoo within a matchbox. Other times, it holds up a mirror to that which I am most grateful. Some days, this house is just small enough. 

‘Hope is like a road in the country; there was never a road, but when many people walk on it, the road comes into existence.’ 

            – LU XUN, HOMETOWN

Victoria, we will get through this.