It’s Sunday afternoon and I’ve just poured my second cup of tea. My little girl is upstairs sleeping and I finally have time to read the news. During the work week, I handle digital content for a handful of clients and after months curating content for an NGO that specializes in inter-ethnic conflict, I’m fairly up to speed with the latest news and international headlines. Prepping myself for another glimpse into the ongoing refugee crisis or the latest suicide bombing, I just didn’t see this coming.
After having a mini melt-down two nights ago after reading an article about a series of child killings in Pakistan, I was hesitant to click into the article, but old habits are hard to kick and I stand by the fact that it’s far better to be in the know. I might have been wrong. My heart sinks as I read:
“Shock and anger as police discovers 400 video recordings of more than 280 children being forced to have sex in Punjab.”
Innocent. Vulnerable. Scared. Abused. Hurt. Helpless. Poor. Suffering. Alone. These words flash through my head as the words “abuse” and “child” embed themselves in my subconscious. “How can they…? Who would…? Those poor…” My brain wants to find words to express the feeling of heaviness that has set in. Like a rock being placed at the bottom of my stomach, making it harder and hard to breathe. But I quickly realize that it’s not the usual empathy I have for vulnerable groups of people. This feeling that is beyond disgust. This desire to lash out that goes beyond revenge. This is happening because I’m a mother. Continue reading “Reading the News Was a Lot Easier, Before I Was a Mom”→
I didn’t enter into motherhood with a plan; I wasn’t keen on reading hundreds of books, my labour plan consisted of one sentence that said “do not show me the epidural needle”, and I insisted on keeping an open mind – whatever will be, will be, and that sort of thing. I had always said that I would love to try breastfeeding (when else do you have liquid enough to sustain another human being? I mean, how cool is that?), but if it didn’t work, I wasn’t opposed to switching to formula. The thing about motherhood is that regardless of how you envision your approach, things never quite work out according to plan.
She runs with the speed of light at the sound of a cry. She heals all wounds and comforts without the use of magical powers. She can prepare dinner, keep a social calendar and return the house to normal at the end of the day all while ensuring the survival of a little human. She’s not superwoman, oh no, she’s much more than that; she’s SUPERMOM.
Talk about ensuring the survival of the human race. Okay, so Super-man, woman, whatever, can scale buildings, fly, rescue people in distress and monitor the general well-being of society. Reality check: If it weren’t for Supermoms the world over, there would be no one rescue. Who do you think makes sure that the little tots causing havoc become well-adjusted adults who get themselves in to stupid situations that require saving? Oh poor Superman, flying around the city saving people and squeezing into telephone booths to keep his disguise a secret. What a diva. Supermom has one outfit that is guaranteed to get stained, spat on, and generally mistreated throughout the day. There’s no changing this, or hemming that. In fact, shoulder stains and little tears are all part of what protects Supermom from the threat of good looking men who lurk around grocery stores or take long casual walks during their lunch break. These men may look to initiate conversation at places like the playground, the coffee shop or the doctor’s office, but thanks to looking like a complete and utter bum, Supermom maintains her honour and is able to focus on the task at hand; preservation of the species. Continue reading “Supermom: Ensuring the survival of the human race (literally)”→