Six years ago, I gave birth to my son.
It was, by all accounts, an easy delivery. As easy as childbirth can be, anyway, when your body is doing something wildly dramatic while everyone else in the room behaves like this is just another Tuesday.
Once they had cleaned and wrapped him, making him look like a tiny burrito with a face, the nurses wheeled him into my room.
Maybe I was exhausted. Maybe I was still groggy from the epidural and laughing gas. Maybe the reality of motherhood had not yet fully landed.
Because the first thing I asked the nurse was, “What do I do with him?”
She looked at me, slightly worried. Then she said, very matter-of-factly, “You bond with him lah.”
And that was my grand entry into motherhood.
Not glowing. Not serene. Not bathed in soft golden light like in the movies.
Just me, staring at this brand-new human being, completely clueless and confused.
From that moment on, the learning curve was steep. Not “learning how to use a new phone” steep. More like “someone’s entire life now depends on you, good luck,” steep.
I had to learn fast. I had to understand what each grunt, cry, and suspicious facial expression meant. I had to become fluent in the language of a tiny person who could not talk, could not walk, and, in the early days, was very much what Angelina Jolie once described her first child as – a blob.
The days were long, but the months were fast. Some days feel like they will never end. You are tired, sticky, covered in milk, carrying a baby who refuses to sleep, and wondering if you will ever drink a hot cup of coffee again.
Then suddenly, the baby is crawling. Then walking. Then talking. Then arguing.
Before I knew it, my baby became a curious toddler, then a naughty little boy, and now, a precocious child with too many questions and opinions.
Over the years, he has turned out to be the best teacher I have ever had. He has taught me patience in ways no self-help book, meditation app or motivational quote ever could. He has tested every nerve in my body, yes, but he has also made me the most patient version of myself.
He has also, in his own small but powerful way, helped me undo parts of my own childhood.
There are moments when I catch myself before reacting. I stop myself from saying something sharp. I pause before raising my voice. I remind myself that spilled water is not a tragedy. A mistake is not an invitation for punishment.
Of course, the Asian mother is still very much alive in me. Let us not pretend otherwise. But when he makes a simple mistake, like spilling his drink, and I see that flash of fear in his eyes, my heart stops a little.
Because I never want my child to see me as the monster in the room.
I know what that fear feels like. Many Asian millennials do, I think. We grew up in homes where accidents were sometimes treated like crimes. So now, when my son looks at me after making a mess, I make a conscious choice.
If it can be wiped, fixed, washed or changed, then it is not worth breaking his spirit over.
And the relief in his eyes when I do not turn into a yelling mother gives me comfort. It tells me that maybe, in some small way, I am doing something right. That he knows I am not here to punish him for being human.
My son brings out many versions of me.
He brings out the crazy lady who shouts “Bye!” at the top of her lungs every morning when dropping him off at kindergarten. Not once. Not twice. But repeatedly, until he disappears into the building. The neighbourhood is now very familiar with our dramatic back-and-forth goodbyes.
He brings out the woman who knows more about dinosaurs, snails, slugs and aeroplanes than she ever planned to know. He knows my favourite colours. My favourite dinosaur. My favourite Godzilla. I did not even know there were so many versions of Godzilla until my son decided that this was essential knowledge I needed to acquire.
He has made me appreciate rainbows again. He has made me look at clouds, puddles, leaves, and tiny crawling things with a level of interest I thought I had lost.
He has also made me the unwilling audience to many announcements involving pre- and post-flatulence updates, because apparently, that is important breaking news in the world of six-year-old boys.
He makes me laugh every day.
Sometimes, when he reaches a new milestone – like being able to reach the light switch – I will pretend to be sad and say, “Aww, you’re not a baby anymore.”
And without missing a beat, he will say, “I’ll always be your baby, Mummy.” That one always gets me.
Motherhood has not been anything like the movies or beautifully lit Instagram moments. It is messy, loud, exhausting, unpredictable and occasionally smells suspicious.
But it has also made me better. Softer in some places. Stronger in others. More forgiving. More aware. More alive to the small miracles hiding in ordinary days.
My son took the jaded woman I was slowly becoming and forced her to see the world again – through wonder, nonsense, questions, laughter, and love.
And six years later, I still look at him and see my dream come true.
Although every once in a while, I do still catch myself asking, “What do I do with him?”
