Every once in a long long while, stories worth telling, stories which tell us about our own darkest fears and our greatest strength comes along. Not only products of the imgaination, they are almost like wisdoms of the human race over long centuries and through perids of history. Forgetting and then remembering and then forgettin again such that these lay buried andn hidden from view, somewhere in the human heart. Lost in the human mind, dormant, waiting for someone to come along and pick up the threads and continue working on it. WEaving a new and complex pattern. Sometimes in harmony, at others in conflict to the story....
She woke up, yet another day, work, her children, her life--sometimes a burden. Often she have forgotten why she does any of the things she does. Cleaning that window in the back, scrubbing the stain on the carpeting, not wondering for a second why she even bothers with these things. Why? Why does she need to pick up the hair in the toilet one by one, as if they are some kind of morbid treasures for some strange collector who wants to find evidence for his own existence and the fleeting nature of it all.
Why? Why does she not have questions about the reason, the reasons why why why she was around. Why she is a mother of two boys, she found she could not love unconditionally like how parents are suppose to love their own offsprings. They were supposed to feel spiritual and totallty changed by the experience of motherhood. Why does she feel that she is not a chosen one, but had this task thrusted onto her, as if she had come along one day and like someone giving out flyers, she got two boys instead of flyers adn found she could not locate a trash can along the way to get rid of these unwanted flyers. And worse, she has to make the best of these flyers, make flower origamis out of them. Give them wisdom of life, they have found along their long walk in life. She felt so inadequate, she has found no gem of wisdom in her life, and could not give them what the whole bloody world want parents to give. Some sound advise on life, to better prepare them for nasty surprises. All she has along the way are shocks and scares everytime she gets ambushed. And she still jumps everytime. Nothing in life has prepared for, nor will ever will prepare her for the next one or the one after, or the one after.
They are just a series of bunps she just tries her bloody bestest to stop falling over from. She trips again adn again. And what did she learn, keep her balance and her mouth shut through it all, and now here she is. Mid-life crisis of the non-exisistent crisis. NOthing that the books describe ever fits her. She should be happy by now. By now, she should have it all made, feel some kind of satisfaction for her situation and feel thankful she is alive. By now she should have cried out with sheer joy from the happiness of motherhood and found her meaning in life. but by now, nothing has happened still. Nothing.
As if she was one of those unlucky ones born with some kind of emotional blackhole that prevents her from crying out loud, thrashing her face, slahsing her face, nor can she laugh out loud, jeer the whole world. THis kind of anger should have left her long ago. It is what teenagers used to pride themselves on rebellion and a spirit to feel angry with everything. BUt she is now a forty year old woman. The She-against-the world kind of attitude is unbecoming. She is a mother for God's sakes, and yet she still feels like a child, unprepared. It is no longer that kind of fright that sweeps her in the face when she is confronted with a crying child, demanding, demanding what from her she does not know. Just its small face red and a huge ugly face screaming. She had wanted to stuff some tissue into its mouth to silence it. She had read of mothers putting heir babies into microwave ovens. Everybody read the articles and thinnk" how cruel humans are" how can a mother not love her own child? It is abnormal! It is a sin! A Crime! Ghastly!
But she had so often felt it clearly, a hatred for the child, she had wished that it would stop crying even if it meant that it would stop breathing. She had often felt a heavy sene of remorse and guilt after that. Such a heavy burden of guilt she is carrying that sometimes when her son gives her loving hugs, she felt that she cannot possibly deserve it and that he is just playing with her. She felt scared and frightened by her own lack of maternity instincts. How different her reality is from the sweet advertisements with sleeping babies and their soft silky skin against the loving mother's breasts. How they always show happy mothers with their angelic child. What was she doing wrong? Why was it that she never felt the way mothers are SUPPOSED to?
THere is a way mothers were, are and will always in the future and far far future be expected to behave. Unconditional love, and wanting the best for their children. Was she a mistake, a warped case of something wrong genetically such that she cannot feel love oozing out of her for her own offsprings. Offsprings, the little aliens, staring at her wanting to get love, knowledge, wisdom, slices of life, their whole world from her. And the fear and pressure she feels sometimes when she feel their eyes on her. AS if she was being judged continually by her own creation. but who have their own minds, their own thoughts, their own motivations. Who ever since it had its first cry had been an indiviudal she feels she tries hard to show she is in control of, but in fact has none.
It is all a farce, a sily farce, she feels is slowly unravelling around her. She looks at other mothers, they make it seem so easy. She has never told anyone her own fears and how sometimes it gets so bad she wanted to downa whole bottle of asprin just to take her mind of her supposed role as a mother.
Motherhood---no one prepares you for this, no matter how much you're heard, read or thought about it. She wondered if everyone was cut out to be a mother, whether there are people in the world like her who were not and never were meant to be good ones. She is not one of those child abusers, but she feels so afraid everytiem she looks at her children.
SHe had felt something in her the moment she first saw that little feet. she didn't what that feeling was.. A kind of wonderment at the creation fo life, and a deep sense of inadequancy. Almost a sudden realization of her own minuteness in a much larger and wider universe from which this tiny fingers evolved from somewehre mysterious, somewhere beyond her minds limitations.
THe breeze blows across her face, tingling her eyelashes, she looks on as her boys sleep their peaceful slumber. SHe feels tenderness for them at this very instance. She bends down and kiss their soft cheeks, leaves the room and think on the challenge she will continue to face tomrrow and the day after and the day after. All these fears and insecurities and groping in the dark along the way. A step at a time, she hopes her children will forgive her, and perhpas they will understand too, one day.
She woke up, yet another day, work, her children, her life--sometimes a burden. Often she have forgotten why she does any of the things she does. Cleaning that window in the back, scrubbing the stain on the carpeting, not wondering for a second why she even bothers with these things. Why? Why does she need to pick up the hair in the toilet one by one, as if they are some kind of morbid treasures for some strange collector who wants to find evidence for his own existence and the fleeting nature of it all.
Why? Why does she not have questions about the reason, the reasons why why why she was around. Why she is a mother of two boys, she found she could not love unconditionally like how parents are suppose to love their own offsprings. They were supposed to feel spiritual and totallty changed by the experience of motherhood. Why does she feel that she is not a chosen one, but had this task thrusted onto her, as if she had come along one day and like someone giving out flyers, she got two boys instead of flyers adn found she could not locate a trash can along the way to get rid of these unwanted flyers. And worse, she has to make the best of these flyers, make flower origamis out of them. Give them wisdom of life, they have found along their long walk in life. She felt so inadequate, she has found no gem of wisdom in her life, and could not give them what the whole bloody world want parents to give. Some sound advise on life, to better prepare them for nasty surprises. All she has along the way are shocks and scares everytime she gets ambushed. And she still jumps everytime. Nothing in life has prepared for, nor will ever will prepare her for the next one or the one after, or the one after.
They are just a series of bunps she just tries her bloody bestest to stop falling over from. She trips again adn again. And what did she learn, keep her balance and her mouth shut through it all, and now here she is. Mid-life crisis of the non-exisistent crisis. NOthing that the books describe ever fits her. She should be happy by now. By now, she should have it all made, feel some kind of satisfaction for her situation and feel thankful she is alive. By now she should have cried out with sheer joy from the happiness of motherhood and found her meaning in life. but by now, nothing has happened still. Nothing.
As if she was one of those unlucky ones born with some kind of emotional blackhole that prevents her from crying out loud, thrashing her face, slahsing her face, nor can she laugh out loud, jeer the whole world. THis kind of anger should have left her long ago. It is what teenagers used to pride themselves on rebellion and a spirit to feel angry with everything. BUt she is now a forty year old woman. The She-against-the world kind of attitude is unbecoming. She is a mother for God's sakes, and yet she still feels like a child, unprepared. It is no longer that kind of fright that sweeps her in the face when she is confronted with a crying child, demanding, demanding what from her she does not know. Just its small face red and a huge ugly face screaming. She had wanted to stuff some tissue into its mouth to silence it. She had read of mothers putting heir babies into microwave ovens. Everybody read the articles and thinnk" how cruel humans are" how can a mother not love her own child? It is abnormal! It is a sin! A Crime! Ghastly!
But she had so often felt it clearly, a hatred for the child, she had wished that it would stop crying even if it meant that it would stop breathing. She had often felt a heavy sene of remorse and guilt after that. Such a heavy burden of guilt she is carrying that sometimes when her son gives her loving hugs, she felt that she cannot possibly deserve it and that he is just playing with her. She felt scared and frightened by her own lack of maternity instincts. How different her reality is from the sweet advertisements with sleeping babies and their soft silky skin against the loving mother's breasts. How they always show happy mothers with their angelic child. What was she doing wrong? Why was it that she never felt the way mothers are SUPPOSED to?
THere is a way mothers were, are and will always in the future and far far future be expected to behave. Unconditional love, and wanting the best for their children. Was she a mistake, a warped case of something wrong genetically such that she cannot feel love oozing out of her for her own offsprings. Offsprings, the little aliens, staring at her wanting to get love, knowledge, wisdom, slices of life, their whole world from her. And the fear and pressure she feels sometimes when she feel their eyes on her. AS if she was being judged continually by her own creation. but who have their own minds, their own thoughts, their own motivations. Who ever since it had its first cry had been an indiviudal she feels she tries hard to show she is in control of, but in fact has none.
It is all a farce, a sily farce, she feels is slowly unravelling around her. She looks at other mothers, they make it seem so easy. She has never told anyone her own fears and how sometimes it gets so bad she wanted to downa whole bottle of asprin just to take her mind of her supposed role as a mother.
Motherhood---no one prepares you for this, no matter how much you're heard, read or thought about it. She wondered if everyone was cut out to be a mother, whether there are people in the world like her who were not and never were meant to be good ones. She is not one of those child abusers, but she feels so afraid everytiem she looks at her children.
SHe had felt something in her the moment she first saw that little feet. she didn't what that feeling was.. A kind of wonderment at the creation fo life, and a deep sense of inadequancy. Almost a sudden realization of her own minuteness in a much larger and wider universe from which this tiny fingers evolved from somewehre mysterious, somewhere beyond her minds limitations.
THe breeze blows across her face, tingling her eyelashes, she looks on as her boys sleep their peaceful slumber. SHe feels tenderness for them at this very instance. She bends down and kiss their soft cheeks, leaves the room and think on the challenge she will continue to face tomrrow and the day after and the day after. All these fears and insecurities and groping in the dark along the way. A step at a time, she hopes her children will forgive her, and perhpas they will understand too, one day.
posted by Nippy at 1:58 PM
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