To Be a Mom
Festive Fireworks in Mama’s Sky
or
The Nth Story About “Grab the Reins—Back to the Start Again.”
Memory struggles to reach back to those Christmas and holiday seasons when we celebrated the most anticipated holidays of the year with everyone healthy and strong.
One falls into bed, another has a stomach ache, then the house is visited by choruses of coughs or the words reaching your ears: “Mom, I don’t feel well”—the little salutes in the sky where cozy waiting stars were supposed to twinkle magically.
A mama’s eyes widen, her hearing sharpens, and I feel myself sigh the “grab the reins—back to the start again” kind of breath.
This year is no exception.
Before Christmas Eve, the house began echoing with volleys of coughs.
Delivered with all the sincerity of Mykolas, the administrator of everyone’s affairs.
Dran-dan-dan.
And once again, inhalers light up around the house, and cupboard surfaces are “occupied” with drops, syrups, and neatly arranged cups of herbal tea.
The volleys fire all day.
They don’t stop at night.
Mama’s smartwatch scolds with the small number of hours slept and keeps “sending” messages with insistent vibrations: “Are you forgetting to rest?”
“Well, brats,” I think to myself, “if I weren’t a Mama, at least I could celebrate Christmas in peace.
I’d sit with a glass of red wine and slowly gaze out the window, losing track of the hours.
No ‘just don’t get sick’ prayers that end up making someone ill.
No secretly sent letters with desired gifts to be fulfilled in the tight schedule of time.
No Christmas trees, no pretend play, no holiday championships.
No early-morning or late-night messages: ‘Mom, I totally forgot to tell you to bring this and that / congratulate the third and fifth.’
No learned poems to recite, no bringing a rabbit/badger or anyone else’s costume.
No post-holiday doctor appointment requests, and no prescriptions to rush to the crowded on-duty pharmacy.
No… no… no…
Just peace.
Which I sometimes (okay, maybe more often than sometimes) envy in those who either don’t have children yet or already have grown ones.
Suddenly, night falls silent at home.
Ego lazily turns in its bed.
Big and “volley shooter.”
Cozy, like from the pages of a storybook, arms tucked under plump cheeks.
I gaze at the little bed, counting the scarce hours—or minutes—of sleep.
And only when curled under the covers do I hear the words of dreaming Mykolas:
“Mykalas loves mamū.” (Author’s note: Mykolas loves Mama).
I fall asleep burying myself into the pillow.
Or perhaps more than the pillow—into the knowledge that being a Mama, with all its challenges, tasks, little accidents, illnesses, and “grab the reins—back to the start again” moments, is something I wouldn’t trade for anything.
No matter how many “turbo-charged” Christmas seasons generous fate decides to hand us in the future.
Wishes to the healthy, and even bigger ones to the volley-coughers and their devoted nurses.
If you’re simmering with the feeling, “Why AGAIN?”
I embrace you with a hug of solidarity.
Mua,
V.
