A Decade of Being a Mother
My firstborn child — my only son — turns 10 next month. Ten! I generally feel a sense of nostalgia whenever the calendar turns to December because I am brought back to 2014 on the pedestrian bridge that connects the parking lot to the UNC Hospital in Chapel Hill: walking (waddling?) on the path, holding my husband’s hand, excited to have a baby. It was a “cold” day on the scale of Southern winters. My mother had already arrived from Malaysia to celebrate the birth of her first grandchild. I was past my due date — 2 weeks past! — and it was time to get induced. The next week or so were pretty freaking awful, not going to lie, but I’m far away enough from the memories to be able to reflect in a manner that is more controlled and not panic-attack-inducing. Anyway, I expect the next few stories on here to be about motherhood and what I’ve learned and experienced from a decade of freewheeling and being a Mommy.
Somebody told me once (or I read it somewhere) that being a mother is like having a piece of your soul out in the open, walking around, potentially getting hurt or sick or just MAIMED by life. And that is truly a frightening thing. For various reasons, I have a lot of parenting anxiety, which has reduced over time, but I don’t think this feeling of living on the edge and constant worry will ever go away. And I don’t think I want it to go away! My life would be infinitely emptier without my kids. For me, specifically, having them was a blessing because it made me slow down at work and in my career. If it weren’t for them, I’d be a completely different person — probably a more productive academic, but I’d imagine I’d also be a more horrible person and possibly die from a heart attack at 35.
My son is a precocious, brilliant child. He has amazing social skills and thrives in relationships with other kids and older people. He’s been able to hold a proper conversation since he was a toddler. Mathematically gifted. And the kindest soul I know. When his sister has to get a shot, he’s the one writhing on the floor in tears (yes, also the most dramatic child I’ve met). He’s come so far and done so much and I can’t wait to see what he does next.
Sam and I used to take him to this Salvadoran restaurant next to our house and he’d fall asleep to the loud music while we ate cheese pupusa. We enrolled him in a Spanish immersion very early on — his first caretakers only spoke to him in Spanish. Had we stayed in America, I think we would have kept at this. But we came back to Malaysia and the Spanish morphed into Malay and Mandarin. But I always think about how he would have grown up if we’d stayed on.
He’s a child of multiple cultures and two countries. I’ll never get how it is to grow up being a kid like him. I’m just really proud of this boy. Best thing I’ve ever made for sure. Him and his sister.
Anyway, more nostalgic mommy stories coming up soon!
