What color is the snowman? by May Navarro

(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.