womanhood

a work in progress

Category: Motherhood (Page 1 of 23)

Dearest Aru (early June, 2019),

My little man.

You are extraordinary.

We asked you if you wanted to go to Singapore without us.

At 5, you said yes.

And you went.

And you loved it.

 

I held back a tear or two when I saw your little hand,

holding your chacha’s.

With that red backpack.

Walking far off.

Not looking back.

 

I held back a tear or two, when your Daddy played “Yaari” in the car.

How would you manage without us?

Whom would you turn to?

When you woke up in the night?

If the food was too spicy?

Or if no one understood that all you needed was a nap?

 

But you loved it.

And Aru.

I want you to know.

 

You’ve always known.

What you’re ready for.

What you’re capable of.

 

And I trust that.

Stick with that gut.

Stick with your vibes.

 

If there is one thing I want to have taught you through all these years.

It’s only this:

Listen to your insides.

 

They’ll never let you down.

There may be lessons to learn,

And that is ok,

Mummy gets lots of lessons all the time.

 

But you’d rather live thru it all,

Having lived.

Than avoided your fears.

And living a life half lived.

 

Love you,

x Maa.

A little dahl, will do.

My dearest.

There are tears in your eyes as you speak.

Welling up.

You won’t let them fall.

I listen, in silence.

Because this a grief I do not know.

I can’t fathom.

Haven’t been thru.

So I feel.

I have nothing to offer.

No words of solace.

And as we leave,

The tears in my eyes fall.

And we hug.

Woman to woman.

Stillness to soul.

 

And so I cook for you.

The one thing I know to do.

My mother’s dahl.

 

I let the mustard seeds burst.

Curry leaves from the garden.

Toovar dahl, soft and blended.

Just the way my mum makes it.

 

I put in jaggery for sweetness in your day.

Lemon juice for strength in your body.

Corriander powder for iron and the fire in you.

Chilli powder to make you feel hugged.

 

I put in my metta.

My good vibes.

The only way I know.

I taste it and I know.

It’s just right as it is.

 

A mother’s love, from my mother to me.

From my motherhood to yours.

My dearest.

My tears still fall for you.

I know the dahl will not do.

 

But.

A little comfort.

On the worst of days.

When the tears don’t stop.

When Netflix doesn’t numb enough.

When dark thoughts sweep like torrents in your mind.

And you can’t see any light.

A little dahl.

Will do.

 

Till today turns into the next.

And little by little,

The darkness shifts.

And the healing starts.

 

 

A little dahl.

Will do.

 

x

K

Holier Than Thou

Don’t judge her.

That woman who poses all up in her Insta with bikinis and butt flesh.

You have no idea how badly he broke her heart.

Don’t judge her.

The mother who won’t get her child jabbed.

She saw a world of chemicals and toxins, and you haven’t seen the darkness she saw.

Don’t judge her.

That woman who has a sharp tongue and speaks her mind far too often.

You have no idea the grief her own tenderness brought her.

Don’t judge her.

That woman with the FENDI handbag who has every nail manicured and every freckle concealed.

She feels good when the sales assistants make way for her, because there was a time when they didn’t.

Don’t judge her.

That scraggly looking woman with 3 kids in the backseat, groaning and yelling. You’ll presume she brought this on herself. But honey, you’ve got no idea.

Don’t judge her.

I know we do it in our thoughts.

And that is really, really hard to control.

But at least.

We can try and hold our tongues back.

Hold our fingers back from typing out the words.

Because we do it to each other.

Woman to woman.

And all we’re doing.

Is bringing us all down.

X

K

Dearest Aru (May 2019),

You won’t believe what your mummy is capable of.

Every night, under Tasmanian skies,

I thought of you.

The stars filled the sky, from North to South,
East to West.

And each night, we saw the moon, change it’s form.

Aru, I was in a forest.

In the dead of the night.

No torch.

And I was in some sort of a heaven.

I can’t explain it.

Your city, swag, gourmet loving mum can’t explain it.

Maybe Daddy can.

He says he always knew it was in me.

From the moment he met me.

And I know.

I know.

He’s right.

Maybe one day,

We’ll peel back the layers,

And find your Tasmanian mummy,

In the city mummy.

x

K

It’s Corny (consider yourself warned)

I think after the miscarriage, I went through what I’ve labelled as “mild depression”. It wasn’t too bad, I probably got a bit addicted to sugar to keep me afloat and am thankful to Aru for giving me a reason to drag myself out of bed.

In the middle of it tho, there was a lot of Ayurvedic support medicine I was taking and I just started getting back to my basics. Less work, a little yoga. Homemade food. Friends. That sort of stuff.

And one thing was more meditation.

I am a total sucker for Deepak & Oprah.

And one thing Oprah said really rang true for me.

She said.

It’s corny.

Be warned.

But she said.

Say “Yes To Life”.

And I realised.

That for a long time, outside of Kholo, I had been saying no.

No, I don’t want to go to Bendigo to see the Marimekko exhibit, it’s too far.

No, I don’t want to see friends, because of XYZ.

No, I don’t want to go see that movie because what if it’s not good enough?

I wanted every experience to be 100% perfection.

So much so, I had started missing out on experiences in general.

Now, I’m trying to get back to just saying yes.

To having something to look forward to over the weekend.

To catching up with friends, even though I may need to process some vibes (I tell you, I feel soooo much :/).

To having potentially bad experiences (as well as amazing ones).

All I’m saying is.

There was a greenhouse in Bendigo and it was so, so beautiful.

So.

Say Yes To Life.

And it’s beautiful surprises 🙂

X

(May, 2018)

Ok.

It’s ok

It’s ok to go slow.

It’s ok to show up late.

It’s ok to feel everything.

It’s ok to not know where it’s all going.

It’s ok to be late for after school pick-up.

It’s ok to send out deliveries a day late.

It’s ok to not be on top of your insta-game.

It’s ok to online shop when you shouldn’t.

It’s ok to feel jealous and not understand why.

It’s ok to eat that dairy milk when you wish it had been 80% dark instead.

It’s ok to pause.

It’s actually good.

So for all my A-types.

Just know, you have my blessings for every time you fuck shit up.

With love.

X

K

Dear Aru (May, 2018),

Oh my darling.

Sweet sweet boy.

You are growing up so very fast.

Becoming such an incredible human.

So persistent when you want something or when you need a question answered.

I admire that you in. Although I appear exasperated often.

You are cautious, it is in your core.

Perhaps it came from a past life, perhaps from your time in the womb, perhaps from your star sign.

Just know, it is ok to take a risk every now and then.

It is ok to fall and hurt.

Your friend is right by you, and he won’t let the cut be too deep.

Dearest Aru.

I may or may not choose to have another one.

Are you ok with that?

Some part of me dies with the thought that you might not have a sibling.

But do I really, truly, madly, deeply, want another?

I just don’t know.

I simply don’t know.

I want one for you.

That’s for sure.

But for me?

I don’t know.

Could I bear more sleepless nights?

More crying?

More whining?

Could I bear the emptiness of being a mum?

Yes.

For me, those early years often felt empty.

Empty of a cause.

Empty of an end point.

It’s who I am.

Seeking the next step.

Tick. Tick. You have arrived.

Motherhood isn’t like that.

It’s about being okay in the all day, every day.

There is no acclaim, no accolades.

It sucks, but there is some part of me that cares about that stuff.

We’ll see sweet pea.

We’ll see.

Maybe I’ll change.

Maybe I won’t.

I love you the same.

But learn from me.

A life lived for someone else, even if it is you,

Isn’t a life lived truly.

X

Dear Aru (April end, 2018),

You’re the sweetest thing, but I don’t know why, I’m grumpy all the time.

I’m trying to ease off at work.

Maybe meditate more, maybe get back into yoga.

You’re my sign.

You’ve always been my sign.

My sign posts.

The one person in the world, whom I mistreat the most.

You just asked me to read to you and I said no.

You haven’t had your dinner and I’m so disappointed.

I’m sorry sweetheart.

I wish I could be loving all the time.

Or at least a little more.

Instead of filling you with my neutral / nothing vibes.

I’m sorry.

Xx

K

The nerve centre.

It had been dead.

Unloved.

Broken.

I’d seen blood and body rush out.

Forming rivers in a shower.

Fusing and departing.

I’d seen a life.

It breaks you in so many ways.

We think the worst of it is in the womb.

Or in the mind.

But it’s also there.

From where it leaves.

And so.

For nights, for days on end.

I’d sought something.

To fill the void.

The doctors said six weeks of no sex.

But they were happy to stick up a plastic cold probe up my vagina and wiggle the shit out of it.

And I had no idea.

My vagina.

Had been through a trauma of it’s own.

And now I realise.

How fucking insensitive and unaware we are.

Of course it feels.

Of course it breathes.

It is life.

It is the creator of life.

And when it was finally loved.

I wept.

And wept.

And wept.

In the dark of the night.

Finally maybe, I could begin to feel anew.

We don’t know.

What the body goes through.

What the vagina goes through.

Heck, we don’t even use that word without cringing.

For weeks.

I have been seeking.

Love.

Solace.

Someone listen to me.

Someone cradle me.

Someone feel this pain that I feel.

Someone.

And I didn’t know it.

I sought it emotionally.

I sought it physically.

And slowly, slowly, conversation after conversation,

Some form of healing begins.

X

K

Note: I wrote this a long time ago. It was one of the first time we’d had sex after the miscarriage and I was in tears. In the middle of it all. And I couldn’t find the words to write “sex”. But I feel that. It is important. For us to know. Our skin feels things. Not just our mind. Like a knee hurts when we fall. A lower back hurts when we lift too heavy. Perhaps, a vagina hurts when it looses a baby. And maybe, we need to find the words to express these things. Because those words, as inappropriate or even as indecent as they seem, as so important. To express. X

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