Yesterday, May 11th, was “Mother’s Day,” and while I am not big on celebrating these supposedly “special” days, I couldn’t help but ponder over the fact that on this specific Mother’s Day, I, too, am a mother — a mother to the most beautiful 9-month old baby girl I’ve had the pleasure to create, nurture and very much look forward to raise.
While it has been a couple months since my daughter has been sleeping beside me (makes me wonder why we even bothered to buy a crib; she never sleeps in it!), I woke up yesterday morning with my baby — my beloved — clinging to me, her sweet face buried in my chest, breathing slowly and peacefully, like it was the most safest and most serene place on earth. And I am sure, for her, it was; I am, after all, her mother.
Mother. Mom. Mommy. Or, as we say in my language (Pashto): Morr. How beautiful and sweet it sounds just uttering those words; the way they roll over your tongue like honey. It warms your heart and makes you feel protected. Loved. And as I lay beside my daughter, watching her sleep, it was at that moment that I started to wonder about my own mother; a woman, who, too, sacrificed so much to ensure that my brothers and I were well cared for; that we attended the best of the best schools so that we would learn to speak English just like the “Amreekian” (Americans) that she would see in the censored Hollywood movies that we’d rent, back when we lived in the Middle East; and further ensured that we studied hard so that we’d make something of our lives.
“Kha taleem woka che sabaa da cha mohtaja na ye (translation: “Make sure you study well so in the future you will be independent, or won’t need to depend on anyone),” she, my mother, would say to me, time and time again, all throughout my adolescent years. And while I hated studying as a child and tried to avoid it as much as possible, I now realize and understand its true value. I also ashamedly admit that I haven’t been the best daughter; there have indeed been times when I’ve snapped at my mother or shown disrespect — something I’d never want my daughter to show me. Ever.
It saddens me. Deeply. It saddens me because I can’t turn back time and relive everything, all over again. And if I did have a chance to go back in time, I would certainly exert whatever knowledge I have now to ensure that I never bring any pain or sadness to my mother, no matter how much I feel she “wronged” me. Being young, immature and rebellious can suck big time; it blinds you and makes you utterly selfish. And while our relationship has gotten better, especially since Zohal’s birth, it’s still not at the level that I wish to — and will — have with my daughter, Zohal.
I look at my daughter and aspire to have the type of relationship with her that we read or hear about in happily-ever-after movies and novels. I don’t want to be “just a mother” to her. No, to me, that would be a failure. I want to be more than that. Much, much more. I want her to cling to me like a baby, even after she’s all grown up and has become an adult; I want her to be able to understand the language of my heart just by looking into my eyes and vice versa; I want to be able to kiss her (a million times) in public, without her having to feel ashamed or embarrassed (yes, I am overly affectionate and I do currently kiss, cuddle and hug her over a thousand times a day, no exaggeration :D); I want to be the first person she runs to, to share all her feelings, emotions and desires with, without the fear that I will judge, scold or lecture her; I want us to be able to talk for hours and hours on end, about anything and everything; and I want be silly with her too — so silly that we’d roll on the floor and laugh our dimples off! I want to be the type of mother that she would be proud to be seen with in public (despite the excessive kissing, as I am sure that may get a tad embarrassing at some point, heh); I’d never want her to tell me that I’m boring or uninteresting, or that I’m not “cool” enough. We’ll create our own definition of what it means to be “cool.” And she will be my best friend and I hers. Bas.
I want Zohal to read this blog post one day. I want her to know that even though, at this specific point of time, I’ve known her for only nine months, she has become the oxygen that I breathe and live on. Her beautiful smile, her laugh, her adorable babbling, her sweet dimpled hands, her dimpled cheeks, her crown of beautiful black hair, and her porcelain skin is enough to get me going through life. And never have I been more proud, more lucky to be her mother. Yes, a mother. M-O-T-H-E-R. Gosh, I could say this word over and over and over again and never tire of it. Too much magnificence, you see. Just. Too. Much.
Oddly enough, I used to dread motherhood, but never did I realize how beautiful and euphoric an experience it could be. This is what true happiness is. Nothing else compares. Absolutely nothing.
Anyway, I’d like to leave my dear readers with a very touching video I watched recently (see link here). Needless to say, it brought me to tears.
On that note, happy Mother’s Day to all the beautiful, strong and brilliant women out there. Being a mom is not an easy job, but it certainly beats every single job that’s existed in the history of ever. And I can personally vouch for that.🙂