On becoming a Mummy again

Superhero made us into Parents, Little Guy turned us into a Family.

Society is harsh. I got married at the age of 23. I was, by no means, an old maid; but they sure did make it seem that way.

Society is cruel. I had my first child three years later. That was, by no means, a very long wait; but they sure did make it seem that way.

Another three years went by and I fell pregnant. Unfortunately, that was short-lived and it brought Society’s eye on me again. “Have another child,” they said. “What are you waiting for?” they asked… Society is impatient, faithless.

Another three years went by and I fell pregnant again. My Little Guy was born. Alhamdulillah! He completed us. While Superhero made us into Parents, Little Guy turned us into a Family.

Although I had anticipated having another child, expected the night-time awakenings, prepared space in our home for a new person, I was, by no means, prepared psychologically to become a mommy again. The first few days I took charge because I had to, I was expected to. But I recall resenting the fact that this little being was taking me away from my other responsibilities as a mother, as a wife and, as selfish as this sounds, from my precious me-time. He took me away from my Superhero, who looked so down and despondent at the hospital when he came to visit. I resented not being able to juggle the new with the old. I missed my husband in strange, non-intimate ways. I wanted to sit and watch TV with him. I wanted to share a meal with him. I wanted to go for a drive with him. My mind was clearly in denial! Not me, I was in control.

As a family, we found a new normal.

The first two weeks of my six-week confinement I succumbed to post-partum depression. Even then I knew I had it, but I just could not shake off that sombre feeling. I felt I could not relate to the old me which had only existed a day before baby was born. I had to constantly remind myself that the changes we were making were to be permanent, not temporary, so no decisions needed to be rushed. I remember making time and concerted effort to read a story to Superhero – Horton Hatches the Egg by Dr. Suess.

“They dug up his tree and they put it inside,
With Horton so sad that he practically cried.
“We’re off!” the men shouted. And off they all went.
With Horton unhappy, one hundred percent.”

… and I cried …

Right there in the middle of the story … sobbing my way through the next two pages … unable to explain to my dear sweet Superhero just why I was crying.

If it weren’t for my mother, my dear mother, and my father I would certainly have needed medication. Talking helps! Sleep helps! Hugs help! I can attest to this.

Slowly, oh-so-slowly, and consciously, I began seeing the little creature as my own. I began talking to him, cuddling him, looking at his features, not just feeding-bathing-changing him. I also began talking ABOUT him. Prior to that, I used to talk about ME. By the end of my confinement, as a family, we found a new normal. New routines. New ways of doing things.

It took a lot of tears, thought-provoking decision-making, juggling, explaining, loving to be where we are today. On hindsight I realise that as soon as I got my act together, Superhero also became more accepting of the baby (where before he craved my attention).

As I type this out, on a cold and windy Sunday in the midst of Winter, Little Guy, now two months old, is asleep in his crib while Superhero gently peeps in on him from time to time to check that he’s alright.

Don’t get me wrong, though. I admit I’m still not 100% there. Just last night as we were cozying up by the TV, preparing to enjoy a movie, the thought DID cross my mind that I SHOULDN’T look forward to watching the complete movie because mommy-duties WILL beckon. I’m not selfish, I sometimes just yearn to have myself to myself, if only for a little while.

I am where I am, which is a far cry from where I was. Society must surely be pleased by now!