(This is an essay I wrote two years ago. This is for all the mother's out there this Mother's Day month)
My kid never seems to
tire asking me this question over and over. He can’t get it out of his head
lately after watching a winter season on video. I've answered him a thousand
times and should be irritated by this constant intrusion yet I am grateful. My son diagnosed with autism is trying to
communicate. It is a rainbow in the uncharted world of autism, a treasured joy
for a mother like me. Motherhood has not
exactly been a walk in the park because having a child with autism has been a
road of challenging discoveries. At almost 5 years old, he is unlike regular
kids who are gregarious in words. He’s still not conversant, mostly employing
repetitive language. His tantrums due to high sensitivity to certain sounds have
left me high strung most of the time.
Despite the struggle, I wouldn't trade the experience of having him for anything. Yes, there are have been moments when I wanted
my old carefree self back. But still, I wouldn't exchange it for a fraction of
aimless youth because being a mother has carved facets of me that I haven’t
discovered before like my ability to lovingly endure even in the most trying
circumstances. It may not be the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me but
it is one of the significant highlights of my life. I am still awed by the
intense love I feel for my child, the unwavering certainty that I will explore
undiscovered paths to make him well. They’re right you can only understand your
mother until you have a child of your own. You can only understand the depth of
her love when you’re holding your son’s hand. I wish I had been more accepting
of my mother and fully appreciated all the sacrifices she has made for me because
looking back her own motherhood journey was quite a challenge too.
_______________________________________________________
When I was nine years
old I would often wonder why my ponytail was always crooked and why I often
carried blotched patches of powder on my face like a half-made clown. I also
wondered why my Mom was always in a hurry, yelling at us to hurry up while
impatiently packing our lunch boxes. That time I didn't realize how hard a single
mom of three kids was on top of being a university physician and what a sight she must have been, a
lady driver who revved her raucous brown Volkswagen on the provincial streets where only a handful of women had their own car. In the far-flung city in the North during the
eighties a separated women whisking three kids to school was fodder for gossip.
She wasn’t from that place, didn’t know the dialect very well, only known as
the estranged wife of Mr. X. She was ahead
of her time though because nowadays, being separated with kids with a job to
boot and slaving through traffic is not eye-popping news anymore.
When you’re the kid
it’s easier to judge especially when you’re the recipient of your parents’
separation, when you have to endure the race from home to school and the shuttling
back and forth between their houses. I admit, I sorely judged my Mom’s unkempt
house and the greasy food she always ordered from the neighborhood carinderia
because she didn’t have time to cook. I would often compare it to my Dad’s
house, one that had a shiny baluster, the immaculate floors and hot, piping
food. The one where my dolls were always neatly lined in one cabinet with
encyclopedias I can browse in while waiting for him to arrive, a contrast to
the waylaid dolls and komiks in my Mom’s place.
I thought then that maybe my Mom was just untidy
like my grandmother complained. But how can she compare herself to my Mom when
she always had help around her and my grandfather stood by her no matter what.
Like me it was easy to judge my Mom. Moreover, during the angry, confused parts
of my childhood, I often thought that my mother didn’t do her job well. She
didn’t save her marriage, didn’t clean the house very well, fought with my
teachers over my unfinished schoolwork thus, always humiliating me. And now
that I’m a mother myself, I painfully realize the incredible sacrifices she
endured, the strength she summoned to bring food to the table and the
determination to keep a semblance of a family.
As a child of separated parents, my view of
motherhood has always been ambivalent. Growing up raised by my father, being a
mother was not a priority. The value of a career was given more importance than
raising a child. And when I decided to be a stay-at-home mom to my child with
autism, my Dad was not especially pleased. For him, it was better to pay someone
to take care of my son while I go out to work. Maybe he was right. It has been
a struggle financially and I had been tempted many times to go back. But there
is an instinct that says I have to be hands-on with the interventions given to
my son during these early years. If this was the right choice I don’t know.
Besides, I discovered that I am not the corporate raider type and preferred work
that offers flexibility to have more time with my son.
So it pains me to hear the word plain housewife, her
job, just mothering the kids, often said with a tad of disgust and pity. Though
not always directed at me, I still bristle inside. And as a mother, I often
wonder do they really know how tough this job really is? I see mothers who are
pregnant, some with two kids in tow dodging cars in busy intersections and admire
their resilience. It’s not an easy job as I have maneuvered only one kid in a
busy mall and I was in the point of distress. These mothers take care of the kids more than
themselves. They prepare meals, rock babies to sleep, wash the clothes and care
for their husbands. These moms are the so called plain housewives. If that is
plain then that is plain fortitude, a work addressed 24 hours a day, seven days
a week without pay and no benefits. Of course, being a working mom is tough,
juggling the roles of wife, mother, employee, always tearing themselves up with
guilt and stress. But it seems to be given more respect than stay-at-home
mothers. However, there should really be no debate on who should be respected
more or whose job is harder because motherhood in its entirety is already a
formidable undertaking.
In
the reverse turn of events, my mother now judges me. She bugs me about staying
at home. I can feel her disappointment because I’m not realizing my full
“potential”. Like my father she also mutters about the waste of my expensive
education. Now I wonder if spending my time with my son really is a waste of
time, if all of my efforts with him can be easily substituted by other people
and I’m just fooling myself spending my time at home. When did motherhood
become easily qualified? That working at the office is more acceptable now than
taking care of your son at home? I always had the impression that it was a
matter of choice.
But do I really know if staying at home with my son
makes a difference? I want to claim that
it is the right choice but there is no motherhood jury to validate that. I’ve
also accepted that I’m now part of the unglamorous side of motherhood because
while the crowd of mothers is on their way to work I’m on the opposite side,
going the other way, staying at home. While other moms rifle through a mound of
paperwork, I’m busy preparing my son’s hot bath. And while their office is an
air-conditioned cubicle in a towering building, mine is the insides of a
fastfood wiping spaghetti sauce off a child’s chin. While these mothers
confidently shop for clothes, shoes and bags, I mentally restrain myself as the
blossoming prices of groceries come to mind.
But it is my son who validates this choice; his
speech is improving and can feed himself with less assistance. No job
promotions or Chanel bags can top that. It is the result of numerous drives to
rigorous therapy sessions, consultations with caring therapists, hours of
research, and the constant push and initiations to situations he would
otherwise fear. It is a delicate balance of firmness and compassion. This is
what motherhood is to me right now.
I try not to dwell on what other people think like
my Mom. She and I lived in different times and different conditions and as long
as my husband and I agree on this arrangement for my son then I should go on
with this job. Motherhood will always be fraught with criticisms, opinions and
unsolicited advices especially from those who survived their own set of
circumstances. But I know all mothers
are trying their best in the only way they know how because like me they are
still continuously learning about this phase in their lives. And it is only
through the passage of time can they completely unravel what motherhood really
means, a word that encompasses the meaning of sacrifice, love, sadness, joy,
disappointments, tears, and happiness.
Nowadays, the snowman question comes and goes.
Sometimes it’s about the sounds of the cow and the rooster. But it doesn’t
matter. My patience can take it as long as he talks to me. I’ll answer it over
and over again. So now, when he asks me again for the millionth time, What
color is the snowman? I’ll tell him “Anak, the snowman is white with faint
patches of pink because of the tight hugs his mom has given him. She hugs him
because she loves him so much and because he has been a good boy.” He may not fully understand it but I’m sure he
knows what hugs are because I often give it to him even if he’s not always a
good boy.
