Transient

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This morning I awoke acutely aware of my first-born’s imminent departure from the childish realm of single-digits and ‘childhood’ into double digits and everything that lies in store for him during the next decade of his life in this Dunya in sha Allah. I look forward, with trepidation, to the time… to entering a new era together… a sense of optimism that is tinged with fear, that I may not rise to the challenge and ever truly become the mother I thought I would be to him; and sadness and regret, at the ways and numerous times that I have undoubtedly failed him.

In many ways it feels like a fresh start and in others like the loss of the baby that I’ve loved so much and erroneously thought I’d always have to hold; the gift and blessing of whom I often took for granted… and now he’s half-way grown… and I feel like I’m watching sand running through an hourglass. I want the time back. I want to do every moment over. I want to cradle him in my arms again for the very first time, skin-to-skin; brand-new, warm, trusting and wise, and to gaze again for the very first time into his beautiful baby face and soulful, knowing eyes. I want to go back to when I had never wronged him or let him down and bask in the unspoiled beauty of that indescribable encounter once again, unblighted by my perpetual guilt and the pain of perceived loss, his and mine.

It is as though in his reaching this milestone I have caught my first real glimpse of the terrible truth I had previously been willfully blind to… that we must one day take leave of one another… and the stark reality is that I have foolishly wasted countless precious moments, locked in the depths of my own fears and frustrations, sombre moods and pensive mind… when instead I could have been rejoicing in his company. These realisations make my heart ache but equally fill me with determination not to waste another minute… not to allow those past  years to have been in vain but rather to learn from the irrevocable and this near anguish within me; to take it as a lesson, hard-learned, and to let it serve as a powerful reminder of the temporality of life and the finite nature of our time.

17.08.2016

Little girl

Baby child with eyes indescribable, how should I love you? I love you to the point of heartbreak, your impossibly sweet face, defiance and tight braid… or silky cascade… one moment loving arms and adventure; gurgling laugh belying the carefree innocence of your age… the next tornado-like and bristling with unchecked rage… flashing gaze… catching me unawares and leaving me afraid… How do I rear you? I who am fractured, perhaps beyond hope of effective repair… how can I nurture your wildflower soul and your fearsome bright spirit without curbing or caging you?

You are breathtakingly, utterly, painfully beautiful. From the very first day indomitable. I fought for you… terror struck at the thoughts of losing you, so tiny, so perfect, and so brand new… so vulnerable…my daughter. You resemble me… with an essence of him… yet you’re just all your own… unlike anyone I’ve ever known. I’m in awe of you, humbled beyond comprehension that Allah chose me for you… overwhelmed by the sense that I don’t know what to do… fiercely protective, convinced that I’m failing, unsure how to guard you from the world seeking to tame you.  Continue reading

Serially lost; part 1… ‘blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart’

Among the most profound and beautiful experiences of my life are the first time I felt my son move inside me and his arrival in the world… I didn’t really have a preconceived idea about how the birth would be. Thanks to my very effective socialisation I never doubted there would be degrees of discomfort but I felt I could ‘handle’ it and was ardently against any ‘unnecessary’ medical interference. I had the (#hindsight) benefit of a mother who’d read Dr Gantly-Reid and Bettelheim; was a La Leche League advocate and refused to use the word ‘pain’ when I asked her whether it would ‘hurt’. I remember I found all this intensely annoying at the time. I had my own ideas about how I would do things; left Gantly-Reid on the Shelf beside ‘The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding’ and ‘Breast is Best’ and told my mother in no uncertain terms that I would not be attending any LLL meetings… thought I knew it all. Second time round I often took those yellow-leafed books from the shelves and looked through them… even long after I knew I wouldn’t need them. Continue reading