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-scented dining table and then softly onto my skin. Only to be stopped short by a screaming baby and a toddler needing to rush to the loo. But I would wait for that sunlit moment again anyway.
And then I realized it wasn’t the notes from those parenting books that I followed much into my parenting journey anyway. It was those sunlight I was busy trailing. And the way those very same sunlight reflected in my daughters’ eyes.
And it wasn’t the notes I took from my mother ab