They say that too much of anything is not a good thing. Well maybe except for baby scent. But I will be honest - I find it impossible to find any extra energy within me to do or talk any further kid-related thing outside the 25 hours a day I spend with my kids at home, paired with limited adult conversation. In fact, in the few adult conversations that I do get, I would rather steer clear of topics related to child-rearing. Let’s talk about the world instead, or literature, or our life goals, or even about the new nasi kandar shop that just opened down the neighbourhood. Just talking about something else other than our own kids can be liberating after spending all of our time with them. And
Maybe the pencil we hold while writing the story of our lives has an eraser tip not so much to get rid of the parts we don’t like, but to remind us that our days will always be made of beautiful mistakes and lessons so great. Like the shade of red my daughter used in her colouring book that was a little too bright, she cried. Or like that time I missed my flight. The eraser she used didn’t get rid of the red. It made it pink instead, and pink was her favourite shade. And I, I got to sit down at the airport cafe where our favourite song coincidentally played.
Sometimes, when you can't get around to the puzzles in your life, you might as well bite a piece and laugh it off with a loved one. Zikir on your fingers helps too. --- P/S - Fret not, no pieces of the puzzle were actually consumed throughout this session. Below are some other moments captured. The puzzle was eventually completed. :)
There were two places I wanted to transport myself to on the day I found out I was going to become a mother - on the bed next to my mother, and at the Parenting section of my favourite bookstore on the corner. I imagined myself taking notes and compiling them into a journal that read, “How To Become A Mother”. I imagined curling myself on the bed next to my mother giggling our way until the sun came down, the same way like we did when I was back from college. Only this time finding myself sobbing my way instead into her embrace in between triggers of postpartum anxiety. And I would read those parenting books by my window each time the sunlight rushed its way in perfectly onto the milk-scente
My most favourite memory of hunger was every day of my childhood when I would be comforted by the whiff of my mother's cooking and then be surprised by a favourite dessert she didn't mention she was preparing. Isn't it beautiful that we're given opportunities to be spiritually hungry and be surprised by the sweetness of lessons He prepared us with?
In one of my most sleep-deprived moments, I remember casually replying to my five-year-old saying “it’s okay” when asked if Pinkie Pie lived in Malaysia. I obviously did not listen to her question, was half asleep, or guiltily wasn't too bothered, God knows. But I laughed it off anyway, chalking it up to ‘mom-brain’, just like with all other things. And then I realized too, how it’s almost second nature to tell our kids “it’s okay” or anything along those lines, with a goal of comforting them. And perhaps occasionally to pause the classic preschooler-incessant-chatter at our own convenience (again, guilty). “It’s okay.” “Good job.” “You did well!” But how often do we tell OURselves “it’s oka
