Tag Archives: Motherhood

Of motherhood and self-awareness

Oh mother, know thyself.

I never liked children. They’re noisy, they move too much, their hands are either up their nose, or up their butt or in their mouth, they eat sloppily, their breath always reeks of chocolate, they touch themselves in public and they kick the back of your chair in an airplane. There really is very little to like. And I really am not sold on this innocence shit,  I believe that children are, essentially, at their very core, deviant creatures who are out to make you regret you ever thought, in your selfish egotism, to procreate, whether willfully or by accident.

And then I had my own. I know you’re probably thinking that is where I say that I changed my mind and started thinking that children are the best thing that could ever happen to anybody, but you’re wrong. As a non-drug user, I would say that orgasms are probably the best thing that could happen to anybody, up there with a good plate of pasta, or a great glass of wine, or a cigarette, or best yet, an evening that encompasses all of these things…the downside being that you may end up fat, with a hangover, and probably pregnant.

Now, children are not for the faint-hearted. You have to be physically and mentally strong enough to withstand not sleeping for days on end, not faint from the sight and smell of poop, and not get embarrassed by the endless puke on your clothes. And I am pretty certain that I am not the only woman who has walked confidently down the street, reveling in the appreciative stares of passers-by only to discover that their smiles were not directed at her dazzling beauty but rather, at the muslin cloth still hanging on her shoulder or the two circles of wetness on her boobs that mirror the shape of her round sunglasses, now conveniently used to hide her shame.

No, there is nothing to like.

Yet despite all the indignity, discomfort and embarrassment of motherhood, I loved my babies. All of them. I couldn’t resist holding them all the time, hugging them, kissing them, just generally coddling and being close to them. I fed them, bathed them, changed them and lulled them to sleep happily and without complaint but I didn’t think this was anything special. Mother cats feed their young and groom them, birds look for food for their kids and even teach them to fly! Elephants stay with their young, lions teach their cubs to hunt. I didn’t think myself too different from any cow or pig out there. In fact, as mothers, I think we would do well by learning from animals to let our children free once they are autonomous.

For most of their childhood, I set out to distance myself from the role of mother to my children. I set out to define myself as anything but. Yes, I had offspring, but so did my neighboring dog. I was first and foremost a writer, an editor, a blogger, I even described myself as an athlete in order not to be brandished as simply “a parent.” Any free time I had was spent reading, doing crosswords, exercising, all in the pursuit of eternal progress, endless advancement, fighting against the inevitable corporal and cerebral decline that escorted parenthood.

I ran a marathon, did a triathlon, wrote a book, started a blog, even got myself a very boisterous dog and became a failed quasi-dog trainer, all in the pursuit of new challenges. Children are what stood between me and greatness. Now all I had to do was wait for them to leave home and resume my path.

And then one summer they started leaving. One by one they started going out, traveling to summer camps and taking summer jobs. And I realized that instead of slowly resuming my life, I was on hiatus. Paused. Waiting for them to come back. I rarely wrote, exercised less and was generally unable to take a difficult argument from A to Z because I could not focus much. Even books lost their appeal. Candy Crush became my friend until my kids came back home.

The moment I had dreamt of, fantasized about, played over in my head time and again while changing, feeding, running after, nursing and lulling to sleep had come. And I had no idea what to do with it.

That is when I realized that in the long, arduous journey during which I was to become a writer, a reader, a thinker, an athlete, a dog trainer (I even tried Bridge), I had in fact, become a mother.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m having tea with the neighbor’s dog.

Open letter to my three boys

Notwithstanding that you are a miracle from heaven and that there is nothing in this world I care about more than your health and safety and happiness, notwithstanding that I would rather die than see any of you in misery, I feel it is nevertheless necessary that I share with you these few tips that should make for smoother relations in the years to come.

Tip #1

You will not ask the same question twice. Ever. Listen to the answer the first time.

Tip #2

“But why Mom?” is now officially banned lexicon.

Tip #3

You will not, ever, complain about the food on the table. You may choose to eat it or to leave it, but you will not complain about it. You will not play with it either.

Tip #4

You will finish your homework, it is a favor to yourselves, not to me.

Tip #5

“In a sec” will, from now on, be replaced by “yes sure.” Preferably “yes ma’am.”

Tip #6

I have a face and it can make expressions, so please address all talk to me and not to your screen. It doesn’t love you as much as I do.

Tip #7

Trips abroad are a luxury and not a given. So is eating out.

Tip #8

Yes you will have to work, save up, and buy your own car.

Tip #9

You will stop using my plugs, wires, pens and everything else that belongs to me. Should you need something urgently, you will ask me. More importantly, you will put it back.

Tip #10

You will learn to rely on yourselves and take care of your own affairs so you can become able, confident, young men.

For the night is dark and full of terrors.

Tip #11

I will tend to your issue as soon as I possibly can. I am ignoring you only because I am trying to focus on something else right now.

Tip #12

I am able to carry two conversations, talk and listen to two people at the same time, but I choose not to.

Tip #13

You will go after what you want, you will not wait for it to come to you.

Tip #14

The answer to “Why Mom?” is “Because.” The answer to “But why Mom?” is still “Because.” But anyway if you go back to tip no.2 you will see that “but why mom?” is banned anyway.

With love,

Mom.

P.S. No I will not be writing a similar letter to the dog because the dog cannot read!

Of boys and falling down

The mother of boys has to be very fit. She needs to be fast and have quick reflexes, with enough mental stamina and explosive power in her arms and legs to get to the uncovered plugs before her crawling dumpling does. Or to skid fast enough to cushion the fall of a miscalculated jump, catch a vase that has just been shot off the shelf, or to simply pick her little boy up every time he falls. Because boys fall a lot. Physically and mentally.

And so it was, that at the tender young age of 45, I took up triathlon training. I had always been relatively fit, I had already trained for and run a marathon, worked out in the gym, dabbled with yoga and pilates and spinning, but this was serious s**t, with a coach and a training program that covered most of the hours of the day, most days of the week. There was no room for excuses, exceptions, justifications or pretenses. Here’s the program, shut up and do it.

And so it was that with a runny nose and a blocked ear (from the previous day’s swimming workout) I picked myself up early from bed and went running. Naturally, I was feeling very sorry for myself, I wanted to be in bed with my books and my box of soft tissues, not out here battling it on the streets of Beirut. I cursed myself, I cursed my coach, I cursed my boys and was thinking how perhaps this Christmas, as a way of getting back at them, I should teach them about the art of giving instead of receiving by donating some of their gif…

Then I fell.

Or more like thudded. Thumped. Clunked.

Crashed. Smacked. Clomped.

It wasn’t very elegant.

But whatever I did, I seem to have tripped over a piece of badly paved road and I found myself kissing the ground with a bloody nose, scraped knees and hands, a lot of pain and naturally, a bruised ego.

I think it was providence’s way for punishing me for feeling sorry for myself. But it went the extra step because I was still a mile away from home. With no money and no phone.

And that’s when the mental stamina needs to kick in.

I must have looked bad after my trudge home because it took my youngest only 20 seconds to realize something was wrong with me.

“I fell,” I whimpered.

He gave ma a quick reassurance hug before running around in a few circles and shooting off to grab cotton, disinfectant, ice and a towel, all neatly displayed on a tray. My middle one had by then got wind that I was hurt and, very un-teenage-like, also started fussing and looking for any sleeves we had for sprained knees, ankles and wrists. They fussed and swarmed around me with such tenderness and love and affection that I started making my Christmas list again.

After my shower and unending enquiries as to how I was feeling from all the boys in my household, I started tidying up the mess they had made while looking after me and thanking providence for allowing me to salute the street so intimately and being at the receiving end of so much tenderheartedness, compassion and care.

Tomorrow I may just fall off my bicycle.

Of boys and noise

When I was a young girl, I used to be partially deaf in one ear. I didn’t know that of course, but everyone else did.

My siblings knew because they would whisper to me when I wasn’t looking and see how long it took to get my attention. Finally, my mother, having given up on my siblings’ rudimentary way of testing, confirmed the diagnosis in a dim and humid doctor’s clinic. I was ten years old.

My mother at the time, bless her, had no idea that I would eventually end up living with four boys and that being partially deaf in one ear may actually be a good thing.

Because living with boys as anyone will tell you, is noisy. Doors don’t close, they bang. They don’t unlock, they’re wrenched open. Conversations are not had, they’re shouted across rooms and corridors. My boys are teenagers now, so they’re quite hormonal and so there’s a lot of shouting and screaming going on.

Then there are the musical instruments of course. The piano, played only with the foot constantly to the pedal, and the bass. And the drums. The drums played without the silencing pads.

And the music that stays on long after the premises have been vacated. Music is always in the background.

Boys also like to watch noisy things: a football match with all the cacophony of the stadium, action movies with long car chases and noisy exhausts, war movies. All with the volume pitched high.

And then there’s Big Boy Number One, of course. My husband loves to watch replays of football matches he’s already seen a couple of times already. If his favored team had actually won, I get treated to replays and commentary on television, tablet, phone…Location doesn’t matter either: bathroom, kitchen, bedroom, living room…it all works. This doesn’t bother me, I have to admit, except when I’m trying to read or I’m concentrating on something else, happily and quietly in my bed, in which case the commentary becomes quite a distraction.

Especially if it’s in German.

(Neither my husband nor I speak or understand German.)

And here’s an observation I made the other day. Boys don’t notice when a sound is too high, only when it’s too low. My eldest son recently joined the school choir and we were, naturally, invited to watch his first concert. It was really great to go and watch his lips move.

“How did you like it?” he asked me hopefully at the end.

“I liked it a lot though I would have liked it even more if I had heard you,” I replied, “your father was complaining that he couldn’t hear you at all! You sing louder than that when you sing alone at home,” I tried, wanting to offer one positive-sounding comment at least.

“Yes well, we were asked to keep it soft and melodious,” he explained.

“Well maybe that’s the problem,” I said. “Next time keep it loud…and try singing in German.”

On living with 10-year olds

If you have a 10-year old go hug him now. If you don’t know where he is, go find him and hug him. If he’s not at home wait for him by the door and when he walks in hug him. If he’s sleeping go wake him up and hug him.

Hug him like your life depends on it.

Because it does.

Your 10-year old will never show you his love like he does now, will never want to play Monopoly with you like he does now, will never seek your approval like he does now, will never ask for your attention like he does now, will never cry when you travel like he does now, will never ask to sleep with you when he’s scared like he does now.

Very soon your 10-year old will no longer be 10.

His voice will break and his hair will grow. His shoulders will widen and so will his feet. His laughter will soon lose its innocence and so will he. He will always love you, but he will never love you like he loves you today.

So if you have a 10-year old, go hug him now. Hug him like your life depends on it because it does.

Hug him tight because your 10-year old will never be 10 again.

And if you have a girl you can hug her too. Hug her and pray her feet don’t grow too wide!