My bundle of joy
My youngest brother was born when I was 10-year old. I was fascinated by this perfectly formed tiny body. I spent my free time with him. Soon I was able to change his diapers and make milk for him. I would buy him tiny shoes and cute, tiny t-shirts with the pocket money I’d saved up. Suddenly there was a difference in my life. I had a real life doll to play with.
Before I knew what had hit I became more his mother than his real mother. I wouldn’t have minded so much even when I was practically tied to the tiny bundle of joy. There were times when I was disappointed that I wasn’t allowed to go out because I had to stay back to baby-sit him.
One day, my few months old baby brother fell sick and I accompanied my mother and him to the clinic. I remember the waiting area was crowded because everywhere I turned my face I would see someone and some people had to stand.
So when my brother sneezed, my mother turned to me and gave me a slap. Why? In some part of her twisted mind she blamed me for his illness. She caused quite a stir in the clinic. A slap wasn’t the only embarrassment I received I was further humiliated by her verbal attack. I was desperately ashamed, it was one of those occasions when I wished for the ground to open up and swallow me.
I had never been embarrassed about the way my parents looked as they looked presentable. But it was my mother’s unpredictable behavior which embarrassed and pained me and the awkwardness between my father and me that saddened me. It hurt that we didn’t have a normal father and daughter relationship.
On hindsight, my mother wasn’t quite the monster in the sense she had never inflicted serious injuries on anyone of us. At least no broken bones or concussion, no stitching and taping and these things have been happening to most unfortunate abused children. Some didn’t live to tell. Some were too young to understand they had done nothing to deserve such horrendous pains in their very short lives. To these suffering children death was a welcoming one.
In those days, without the help of hindsight to see the larger picture, I had felt the hurts and injustices that had fallen on me. At that moment in time, my every unhappy thought had been centered on my own suffering. I had never really spared a thought that my sisters were my fellow sufferers too.
My sisters and I have talked about our experiences. We always felt so ashamed about them but now we don’t. We used to wonder why we couldn’t have had a mother like the kind neighbor who lived across us. Back then, we were so ignorant that we didn’t know that there have been even worst parents in comparison to ours.
I should thank my mother, mainly because of her I’ve tried not to make the same mistakes she’d made. With my children, I would never reprimand them in public. I would make it a point to have a one-on-one talk. Making a scene isn’t my cup of tea. I am no pushover but I have a more dignified way of dealing with my problems. Though I had an unhappy childhood and a few unhappy episodes I wouldn’t want them to revisit on my children through my own actions.
Before I knew what had hit I became more his mother than his real mother. I wouldn’t have minded so much even when I was practically tied to the tiny bundle of joy. There were times when I was disappointed that I wasn’t allowed to go out because I had to stay back to baby-sit him.
One day, my few months old baby brother fell sick and I accompanied my mother and him to the clinic. I remember the waiting area was crowded because everywhere I turned my face I would see someone and some people had to stand.
So when my brother sneezed, my mother turned to me and gave me a slap. Why? In some part of her twisted mind she blamed me for his illness. She caused quite a stir in the clinic. A slap wasn’t the only embarrassment I received I was further humiliated by her verbal attack. I was desperately ashamed, it was one of those occasions when I wished for the ground to open up and swallow me.
I had never been embarrassed about the way my parents looked as they looked presentable. But it was my mother’s unpredictable behavior which embarrassed and pained me and the awkwardness between my father and me that saddened me. It hurt that we didn’t have a normal father and daughter relationship.
On hindsight, my mother wasn’t quite the monster in the sense she had never inflicted serious injuries on anyone of us. At least no broken bones or concussion, no stitching and taping and these things have been happening to most unfortunate abused children. Some didn’t live to tell. Some were too young to understand they had done nothing to deserve such horrendous pains in their very short lives. To these suffering children death was a welcoming one.
In those days, without the help of hindsight to see the larger picture, I had felt the hurts and injustices that had fallen on me. At that moment in time, my every unhappy thought had been centered on my own suffering. I had never really spared a thought that my sisters were my fellow sufferers too.
My sisters and I have talked about our experiences. We always felt so ashamed about them but now we don’t. We used to wonder why we couldn’t have had a mother like the kind neighbor who lived across us. Back then, we were so ignorant that we didn’t know that there have been even worst parents in comparison to ours.
I should thank my mother, mainly because of her I’ve tried not to make the same mistakes she’d made. With my children, I would never reprimand them in public. I would make it a point to have a one-on-one talk. Making a scene isn’t my cup of tea. I am no pushover but I have a more dignified way of dealing with my problems. Though I had an unhappy childhood and a few unhappy episodes I wouldn’t want them to revisit on my children through my own actions.
posted by Colourful Jade at
11:37 PM
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