Angst

Motherhood, which does not exclude those who did not actually went through birthing, is a gift. Not many are handed the privilege of touching a baby's soft skin, or sniffing the scent of milk on any part of a baby's body, or running a hand over that thin lock of hair growing on a delicate head. These are all incomparable experiences. I know all too well the magic these bring.

To be an important part of God's miracles which mostly come in forms of beings bearing tiny hands and feet, no teeth, and knows mostly crying as a form of communicaton, is easy. To play the part is another story altogether. I do not speak of the forced expertise for changing diapers or burping after feeding. In my two decades or so of being a Mom, and all the struggles that came with it, I have come to the conclusion that my role as a mom of two is consumed by one force: angst.

Each day of my children's life, I deal with angst. It started with my fear over Ana's insatiable curiosity of bathrooms. It made me imagine what she would do with the flush: will she repeatedly flush? Will she make a mummy out of herself using the tissue paper? Or Aidan's tendencies to poke his finger through these metal thingies on electric fan covers and test whether his fingers will be chopped off or not. He actually did worse, he tried to see if his hamster would bite if he agitated it enough. His hamster did, and died, the dreadful thing. That ended up in a series of anti-rabies shots which cost a full year's tuition. 

These days, they are adults and it seems easier. I told them repeatedly that all I need to know to shut up is where they are at certain times other than their routine, who they are with and what time they will be home. I understand perfectly their annoyance over my text messages, which I send usually thrice (early on, they would laugh at me for my overly sensitive reactions on messages and calls unanswered). Yet I have no other acceptable reply to that than say: 'I am your mother.' 

That's right. I am their mother. That six-letter word, looked upon differently by one or another as cherished or dreaded. Some taken much too early from us, or way too late. Pampered or ignored. Appreciated or mocked. Still and all, I think of my mother now and I try to understand why she was the way she was back then. Then I look at myself now and try to understand, too, why I am the way I am. We are two worlds apart, really, entirely opposite in our ways with our children. But it is in this understanding that I have come to realize that we both lived with the angst: she dealt with it by detachment. I did, and still do with embracing it. That what makes me breathe.