As a teenager I fantasised being a flamboyant single mother pushing a cart of giggling toddlers through parks and supermarkets. It was one of my dream roles. At par with being a superb professional. I hadn’t decided on the profession yet. But I knew it was going to be bombastic and glorious. Like me.
In college, I made proclamations to friends that I couldn’t wait to mother my future children. I will do it alone, I would remind them, as I would rather swallow iron nails than trust men with this project.
By the second semester of my third academic degree I was consciously scanning my environs for potential sperm donors I could observe, witness, trust, vet and approve. The selection pool appeared vast, dreamy and appealing. Artists. Playwrights. Filmmakers. Lawyers. Journalists. Humanitarians. Travellers. I couldn’t wait for my core dream to actualise.
When in public places, I intently watched mothers lug around and wrangle their piddly children at airports, cafes, parks and exhibitions. Some were accompanied by nannies, and others had tears in their eyes. Yet, they all appeared tight-mouthed, thin-lipped, and on the verge of growling. Unloving and unthankful, I would silently condemn them. When I become a mother, I wouldn’t regard my kiddies as insufferable. I also wouldn’t be caught dead using violent language such as “Terrible Twos”. I sent out reassuring kisses into the air to my future children.
I became a mother at twenty-nine. I had finally decided on the profession. Yet, I was far from feeling bombastic or glorious. New motherhood made me feel anything but. Prolonged home confinements, losing sleep nursing, fearing a wailing baby, sending prayers to an unnamed god for twenty minutes of unbroken sleep, the body and breasts ballooning beyond the point of recognition; and the terrifying realisation that the marriage to my daughter’s father was a dreadful mistake.
I began deeply cherishing my baby when I decided to leave her father. It was exhilarating. I awakened to the beauty of the google-eyed, itty-fuzzy being wriggling on my bed. I processed my fascination, hurt and grief through diaper changes, rocking and cradling my cub. I went back to work. In time, I began balancing my career and nurturing my infant with panache and the self-assurance of a classical dancer on stage. I spiritedly powered through daily routines of infant grooming, nestling while giggling, dancing while guffawing, and keeping up with lawyer-ly obligations. I felt bombastic and glorious.
I cannot recall if the toddler stage announced itself suddenly or gradually, but what I do know is that my life as I knew it (and liked it) came crashing down. Overnight, I found myself running for cover to corners and crevices of my apartment where I couldn’t see, hear or feel anything baby.
I am allowing this tender exposition to remain uncorrupted by faux positivity.
What changed? The spaces and routines I had deftly carved out to personally enjoy daily were torpedoed by a squawking and charging rhino cub of a toddler, who in her own right dealt with new-found independence, assertive expression and emotional volatility. The victims were as follows:
- my early morning coffee and meditation hour
- my bath and shower time
- my office and client conference hours
- my meal-times
- my community meet-ups on Zoom
- my Sunday farmer’s market jaunts
- my coffee outings with girlfriends
- my therapy sessions
- my bedtime
- any quiet time.
I was no longer the preferred attorney for urgent or unscheduled calls at the law firm. The year-end bonuses issued to me began dwindling. I was not gutted, though. It felt liberating to be able to assert my boundaries at the workplace and speak up about my need for flexibility as a single parent with no supporting family members in the city. The financial consequences did not faze me as I was in radical acceptance of my responsibilities to myself and my daughter and our chosen lifestyle.
But. Other losses began to appear more palpable. And, God, these hurt. As my remarkably growing toddler in all her glory laid claim on every corner of my house and whatever personal schedule or bodily space I had remaining, I felt deep pangs of devastation. I wept under the covers over the loss of personal time for coffee, meditation and romance books. I sobbed in the bathroom for client calls interrupted by furious screeching demanding unrestricted access to me and my person. Like a baby, I wailed under the shower as my toddler let out blood curdling screams and angrily pounded on the door to be “mummy paas” (near Mother). I longed to eat in silence without being asked for “godi” (lap) or have the contents of my plate picked at and flicked. I yearned to be able to huddle in my bathroom for ten minutes to pore over gossip sites for scoop on the latest celebrity break-up. I routinely crouched on the floor with hands over my ears as my child went ballistic and wildly protested all of the previous routines we had established prior to her turning two and half years. Bath. Meals. Change of clothes. Toilet time. Bedtime. The latter were all replaced by my daughter’s inconsolable and theatrical shrieking. And as I ploughed through the routines where I was to be with my child, I silently grieved the loss of any slot in the day where I was not a parent parenting a babe.
My coping mechanisms kicked in and I found myself Googling ‘terrible twos when over’ or ‘toddler ruined my life’, and ravenously scrolling Reddit discussion threads to locate harrowed mothers’ candid and graphic descriptions of toddler-led violence. I wanted to feel less alone in my shock, tiredness and frustration at the turn of events. The Terrifying Twos. My career moved at snails’ pace. My peers soared with achievements and milestones I had earmarked for myself. I wanted to say sorry to any mother I ever judged. I parked my lofty fantasies of having a brood of children in rapid succession to a hazy point in the distant future.
Heartbroken, I came to terms with daily emotional volatility and unpredictability in my life amid fears that my non-child-related hobbies and goals were a fever dream, now lost to combatting and parenting my child through frequent and intense meltdowns and needs for attachment. I had become a soldier of the home and a ringmaster of domesticity. A place and a role I never imagined I would find myself in.
As of today, a lot has shifted. However, I am letting my account of the raw discomfort in parenting remain untouched and unaccompanied by an optimistically sweeping conclusion to this essay. This is in honour of myself. I am allowing this tender exposition to remain uncorrupted by faux positivity out of respect for the painful and reptilian emotions that parenting often evokes in me.
