Single-Mom Speak: A week after Mother’s Day

Image by StockSnap from Pixabay 

I’ve always maintained that ‘guilt’ is a naturally osmotic influence that moms get the moment they first find out they’re pregnant. It can be for anything from doubt about the pregnancy to worry about eating the right food, taking the right supplement and if it was OK to go swimming in the first trimester…. to wondering if we made right decisions about their schooling, about values imparted, choices made on their behalf, for their safety… the list goes on… and guilt inevitably creeps in.

Last Sunday, on Mother’s Day, as WhatsApp & social media was full of sappy greetings to all moms, grandmoms, stand-in moms and pet-moms, I felt doubly assured that the belief still holds, especially for me as a single parent.

Motherhood is glorified endlessly. Throw in some sacrifice and martyrdom and we have the ultimate foundation for reams of literature, prose & poetry notwithstanding.

The truth of motherhood is often euphemized – usually when confined to one’s journal or thoughts, or in very intimate settings with other moms who have let their guard down and shared the ugly truth without a mask.

Motherhood, apart from the few social media Sundays across cultures, is a ruthlessly thankless job. Apart from the few months of infancy, the rest of the many days, weeks and months that turn into years of battle with wits, patience and a hopeful willingness to live to tell the tale full of battle scars.

I’m on my twenty first year of parenting. I like to call myself a 21-year-old mom! There’s much that I have learnt over these years, but there’s so much more than I feel I am abso-effing-lutely sure that I am ignorant about. Like, for example, I still cannot remember if Ash likes to keep the chutney in a bowl or directly on the plate next to his dosa, but I do know he doesn’t want vegetables in his fried rice & shawarma.

That’s the simple stuff.

But I guess you would believe me when I say that I’m extra emotional when I type this today that having borne and raised my children through all sorts of trials, that somehow, as they have grown up, there’s a part of me that simply does not know who they are?

As children grow older, and wiser, and smart-ass-ier, they also tend to tell you all of all the things that you’re doing wrong – all the things that you should’ve / should not have done instead of the choices you made for them. Yes, at the time they all seemed to be the best options available, but hindsight is a great thing, isn’t it? Especially from a child barely out of their acne!

So when the children are headed towards teenage and adulthood, and when the conversation axis shifts from adult parent: child to a adult:teen and adult:adult maturity level, there is a lot of questioning that goes on – in as much the parent as the child. While the child, invariably, is finding that sense of independence, the parent fumbles.

Ok, let me stop with vague third personalities and take accountability here.

I… I fumble.

I doubt & question myself.

And I also beat myself up for all the poor choices that I made, albeit in good faith and hoping for their best interests.
I also feel the sorrow – not as much guilt, anymore – I have done my work on that account – but sorrow… that runs deep.

I feel the sorrow – when putting myself first so that I could care for three children, who otherwise would have fallen through the cracks. They still suffer in the crossfire of parental conflict (and immaturity), but I know they are better off than they could have been had I chosen to remain in hell.

I feel the sorrow of not being able to work faster on my own trauma… and having them suffer because of my inability to put out the flames faster than I have.

I feel the sorrow of not being able to do more than I possibly can.

It is not easy, and I know I need to be kinder to myself, more compassionate maybe, but I still feel the sorrow of not being able to do enough…. and sometimes not being able to be enough… they deserve better.

And I feel sorrow for the loss of the person I used to be – a little more carefree, a little more fun, a little more present, a little more of everything that I was… and little less of who I am today.

Who am I today? I’m tougher, harsher, rougher around the edges, demanding, fiercely unapologetic…
and I am all this to them.

I tend to demand more of them – I see shades of poor behavior and while I realize that they’re free to make their own mistakes, I fear the errant gene that might cause them to go astray.

I expect them to be caring, kind, generous global citizens and may sometimes be a little too idealistic (for my own good) – but I cannot bear the thought of being faulted.

There you have it! I just fear being a poor parent… despite doing everything I possibly can, I fear that somewhere, somehow, I fall short… of being a good enough mother.

I also feel tired. Bone tired & exhausted, to be honest.

Of having to show up every single day,
Of having to suck it all up and just do the doing,
Of having to take the fall and blame for when things for wrong and smile and applaud when things go right,
Of having to take on the responsibility of both parents,
Of just doing, and doing, and doing… and not taking sufficient time for just being.

So, this week, I welcomed some care that came from my friends over three days.

And then I spontaneously booked myself for a massage – a 25 massages gift package that I had bought myself a long time ago.
I reckoned, it was high time, as a 21-year-old mom, to start acknowledging myself, and giving myself the attention I deserve.

Did it help fix things?
Not really…
But just taking a couple of hours to myself kinda, just about, adjusted my compass to self direction.

I don’t really have an ending to this piece today. I started writing it last week when I was quite emotional about everything, but today, I’m not really as charged emotionally, but I am drained from those feelings.

My friend, Rihab, insisted that I put this blog out either way – she thinks very highly of my writing, even when it is headless / tail-less / haphazard – so this one is for Rihab – for being with me through the years… and we’ve known each other since Grade 1!!
This one is also for all those moms out there who don’t really fit the bill beyond the mushy greetings! We may be called all sorts of great things, but this one is a little fist bump & shoulder nudge to us for being the broken moms – the ones who don’t always get it right, but who find ourselves in the corner and still keep kicking – and showing up for what it’s worth.

All my love…
~ L