the migrant wife

(Scattered thoughts on approaching One, written around my son’s birthday)

I can’t believe it’s been one year since you were born. A year ago you were kicking me repeatedly on the left rib. You did it so much it must have bruised it from the inside. 365 days ago I rubbed my cheek against yours and drank in the silky soft smoothness. Time expanded up to envelop the three of us in a cocoon of fresh family bliss. Too many “today’s” yo-yoing between nerves (have I fed him enough?) and adoration (why is he so cute?!), guilt (I’ll never be a good enough mum!) and gratefulness (I can’t believe I get to be his mum!). 

365 today’s ago I held you for the first time in my arms. You cried – you squirmed – you rooted for milk – you didn’t sleep. Today I hold you in my arms – your nurse – you smile – you giggle – you still squirm – you grab at my hair – you grab at my glasses – you said ‘dagaboomshoo’ – you wave at the wall – you get down to explore the wall you just waved at. 

365 days ago I thought to myself, this is it. I won’t ever live for myself ever again. Because my living and my being is so tied up with this little warm pink baby who relies on me for every facet of survival. 

Some say that babies don’t realise they are a different person to their mother until some months in (4 months? 8? 12?). I think I didn’t fully realise you were separate from me until some time into mothering. From the moment a baby is born, the mother starts a long process of letting go. 

One year in, I still count it a privilege to be your mother. But you have your own personality and quirks and humour and will and character, and you are not me. I am grateful. 

There was a bit of grief when I realised that I won’t ever live life only for myself again. But in losing myself through caring, nurturing, providing, training, loving, teaching, (etc), I have found myself. Of course, I knew who I was before motherhood. But it felt like the excess parts just got pruned off, for a season. I was forced to be unselfish for a while – uncomfortable, but necessary. 

I had in mind what our days would look like. I don’t even remember what that ideal was. Days that went by regardless of how it went. Days don’t linger when things are difficult. Days stay faithful – the sun always sets regardless of whether you had napped that day. Those napless ones definitely broke me a little. 

Motherhood the first time round feels like being broken into a thousand pieces and then being put back together again. Perhaps that’s still the case the following times. But I remember who put me together. My husband – my rock. Friends who are better described as kindred spirits. Family who make you feel like you’ve won the jackpot as far as parents, relatives and siblings go.  God’s hands moulding and re-forming. 

You still remind me of him, the tiny stranger who was so familiar at the same time. Your milky breath as you leant close. The way you cup your cheeks, reach for your ears, and arch back for a big stretch when I woke you. How your feet are always searching: for something to push against, something to climb, something to kick. The furrowing of the brow. The wrinkling of the nose when something amuses you. 

Today I put you on my lap to lay you down after a feed. You’re the length of my entire leg. You must have been half this height a year back. You smile and say something I don’t understand and I say yes anyway. You kick my left rib, this time from the outside. Oh well, off you go then.