I feel embarrassed writing this post. It's not something to which others relate. When I mention it to other moms they laugh, as if I'm joking. I then laugh with them to mask my embarrassment.
I've really been struggling since the beginning of this year. All 4 of my kids are in school - two of them happily so. The problem is that I feel empty without them. I feel desperate to have them near me at all times.
At first I thought that Aisha (3) going off to creche was making me feel redundant. I thought that this 'depression' was borne from a sense of purposelessness. But, I realise that it's more than that. During last year (while Aisha was home with me), I became so excited about registering for a course in magazine journalism. I was enthusiastic about starting the course and about the prospects such a qualification might afford me.
However, now that the time has arrived, I feel like I cannot focus on anything but the kids. I'm teary all the time they're at school. Two mornings ago I went to gym alone - and hated it. As a working mum, I'd always envied SAHMs, who could do fun things like go to gym, go for lunch with friends etc.
Now that I am at home with no kids to hold me back, instead of the exhiliration and the feeling of freedom I'd been expecting, I feel nothing but sadness and longing. Someone suggested that I'm suffering from depression, but I feel so guilty about accepting that. I mean, really, what do I have to be depressed about? There are people with real problems out there - and I keep reminding myself of that. But, it doesn't take away this feeling.
The fact that Shakeel (13) and Aisha are struggling to adjust to their new schools is perhaps the underlying reason for much of what I'm feeling. I feel so guilty each morning I say goodbye to them. I hate that I can't help them. Then there's another issue affecting one of my other kids, which looms over me threateningly and constantly. How can I be happy and embrace my "freedom" when my kids are not happy.
Then, of course, there is perhaps the fact that this is the first time in years that I've had the time and opportunity (in the absence of nappies, breastfeeding and toddler hissy fits) to deal with some of the issues from which I've been able to hide while Aisha was the primary focus of my day. Now I have no distractions and no one behind whom I can hide.
I have no idea why I'm crying.
Showing posts with label sadness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sadness. Show all posts
Wednesday, 13 February 2013
Thursday, 6 December 2012
Just give me a moment to mourn before I embrace the change
Today is Shakeel (13)'s last day of primary school.
The atmosphere this morning was sombre. Unfortunately my kids seem to take after me; focussing on the end of an era instead of the beginning of a new one.
I know that the time will come when I'll start getting excited about all the change we're about to experience. Right now I just want to mourn the end of an era.
I wish I was the type of positive person who could embrace change. Change scares me. I bitch and moan about my life at times, but I really love the status quo. I fear what lies ahead.
My kids attend a school in the city centre, so they don't really get to hang out with their school friends outside of school. They therefore spend all their time with one another - playing, laughing, fighting, arguing, competing etc. They put on plays and shows to perform for us. They choreograph dance sequences.
As much as they fight, they are really really close. I am so afraid that that is about to change.
This is the last time all three older kids will be at the same school. The last time they'll share their common experiences at the end of the day; the last time they'll be able to relate as closely to one another's experiences at school. Mention the name of a certain teacher and they all shudder. Mention the name of the school clown and they all giggle. No more afternoon banter about kids and teachers who form part of all their lives.
Next year Shakeel will have his own friends, his own teachers and his own experiences. He will no longer care as much about what happens at his sisters' school - his focus will be on his own experiences. Gone is that common experience further cementing the bond between the 3 of them. I'm so afraid of how that will affect their relationship.
Shakeel will, for the first time, have school friends in our neighbourhood. Does this mean that he will now be spending time with them that he would previously have spent with his sisters (and me)? I know that it's way past time that my son should be enjoying his own relationships outside school. But I worry about what that means for his relationship with his sisters. And with me.
Tharaa (11) will probably join her brother at the same high school in a few years time, but Shakeel and Nuha (7) will never again be at the same school. Despite the 6 year age gap between them, they are really close. Does this mean that is about to change?
This morning I'm sad for Shakeel; for the fact that he is saying goodbye to the teachers and friends and the life he's had for the past seven years.
I'm also afraid of how this change will affect the close bonds within this family.
And, as if that is not enough, this is the last school day I spend with my baby - my darling little angel - Aisha (3), since she will be starting creche at the beginning of next year. And just as I'd anticipated, the tears started pouring as soon as I wrote that sentence. I'll deal with this issue another day - I just don't have the strength for that intensity of emotion this morning.
As I waved goodbye to my older 3 kids this morning before heading back inside for my breakfast, I realised that it is the last time I'll be doing that. Next year, I'll probably be dashing out the door dragging along a screaming Aisha (or maybe I'll just lock us both in a room where nobody can reach us to separate us - but, like I said, more on that another day). I'll probably first drop Shakeel at his new high school while trying to placate my darlingbaby babies. I wonder how well I'll navigate the traffic on the Koeberg interchange through my own blinding tears.
Did I mention how much I hate change?
And now for the rational part of this post. I realise that out of these endings, many new beginnings will be born. I realise that children are resilient and will adapt to their new circumstances (probably better than I will). I realise that these changing circumstances will probably affect the dynamic of the relationships within this family, but that that is not necessarily a bad thing. And that the loving bonds that exist between my kids are strong - that changing the dynamic of their relationships will not necessarily mean that they will no longer be close.
I realise all this. I understand that change, though uncomfortable (and sometimes even painful) is necessary for new opportunities and positive growth.
And I will embrace this positivity (and inspire my kids to do the same). But not just now. Now I just want to pause, remember and reflect through my tears. I want to mourn the passing of the way things were.
And then when this moment has passed, I'll spend the rest of the day savouring every precious second with my baby; doing all the things she loved doing while we were at home alone together for the past three years.
''Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore." -Andre Gide.
"Sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together." -Marilyn Monroe.
'' Fear, uncertainty and discomfort are your compasses toward growth." - Unknown
Quotes obtained here
The atmosphere this morning was sombre. Unfortunately my kids seem to take after me; focussing on the end of an era instead of the beginning of a new one.
I know that the time will come when I'll start getting excited about all the change we're about to experience. Right now I just want to mourn the end of an era.
I wish I was the type of positive person who could embrace change. Change scares me. I bitch and moan about my life at times, but I really love the status quo. I fear what lies ahead.
My kids attend a school in the city centre, so they don't really get to hang out with their school friends outside of school. They therefore spend all their time with one another - playing, laughing, fighting, arguing, competing etc. They put on plays and shows to perform for us. They choreograph dance sequences.
As much as they fight, they are really really close. I am so afraid that that is about to change.
This is the last time all three older kids will be at the same school. The last time they'll share their common experiences at the end of the day; the last time they'll be able to relate as closely to one another's experiences at school. Mention the name of a certain teacher and they all shudder. Mention the name of the school clown and they all giggle. No more afternoon banter about kids and teachers who form part of all their lives.
Next year Shakeel will have his own friends, his own teachers and his own experiences. He will no longer care as much about what happens at his sisters' school - his focus will be on his own experiences. Gone is that common experience further cementing the bond between the 3 of them. I'm so afraid of how that will affect their relationship.
Shakeel will, for the first time, have school friends in our neighbourhood. Does this mean that he will now be spending time with them that he would previously have spent with his sisters (and me)? I know that it's way past time that my son should be enjoying his own relationships outside school. But I worry about what that means for his relationship with his sisters. And with me.
Tharaa (11) will probably join her brother at the same high school in a few years time, but Shakeel and Nuha (7) will never again be at the same school. Despite the 6 year age gap between them, they are really close. Does this mean that is about to change?
This morning I'm sad for Shakeel; for the fact that he is saying goodbye to the teachers and friends and the life he's had for the past seven years.
I'm also afraid of how this change will affect the close bonds within this family.
And, as if that is not enough, this is the last school day I spend with my baby - my darling little angel - Aisha (3), since she will be starting creche at the beginning of next year. And just as I'd anticipated, the tears started pouring as soon as I wrote that sentence. I'll deal with this issue another day - I just don't have the strength for that intensity of emotion this morning.
As I waved goodbye to my older 3 kids this morning before heading back inside for my breakfast, I realised that it is the last time I'll be doing that. Next year, I'll probably be dashing out the door dragging along a screaming Aisha (or maybe I'll just lock us both in a room where nobody can reach us to separate us - but, like I said, more on that another day). I'll probably first drop Shakeel at his new high school while trying to placate my darling
Did I mention how much I hate change?
And now for the rational part of this post. I realise that out of these endings, many new beginnings will be born. I realise that children are resilient and will adapt to their new circumstances (probably better than I will). I realise that these changing circumstances will probably affect the dynamic of the relationships within this family, but that that is not necessarily a bad thing. And that the loving bonds that exist between my kids are strong - that changing the dynamic of their relationships will not necessarily mean that they will no longer be close.
I realise all this. I understand that change, though uncomfortable (and sometimes even painful) is necessary for new opportunities and positive growth.
And I will embrace this positivity (and inspire my kids to do the same). But not just now. Now I just want to pause, remember and reflect through my tears. I want to mourn the passing of the way things were.
And then when this moment has passed, I'll spend the rest of the day savouring every precious second with my baby; doing all the things she loved doing while we were at home alone together for the past three years.
''Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore." -Andre Gide.
"Sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together." -Marilyn Monroe.
'' Fear, uncertainty and discomfort are your compasses toward growth." - Unknown
Quotes obtained here
Wednesday, 16 May 2012
A contemplative 39th
39. My last birthday as a thirty-something. Embarrassingly - and very unexpectedly - I awoke feeling really sad.
Not for the obvious ''What do I have to show for my 39 years?'' or ''I haven't accomplished what I'd set out to'' - having four kids truly makes me feel more blessed than I'd ever thought possible. My sadness seems to be rooted in a deep nostalgia - a grieving that the past has passed, never to return. Despite my awareness and belief that there is still so much to be experienced.
My sadness is making me feel guilty. Ungrateful. At least I've made it thus far. So many people, who had been my age, didn't - Faghmi Smith, Gary May, Gadija Abbas etc.
I think back to my 20s. A period in my life when stupidity ruled the day; when bad decisions were made, the wrong people trusted. Yet, a time still filled with so much hope and (often misplaced) faith in others. Intense emotions - a spillover from my delayed adolescence. Happiness. Sadness. Hope. So much hope.
From my 20s to my mid-30s - wasting so much time thinking about what I should have done, could have done - instead of seizing the day there and then. Spending too much time caring about what others were thinking of me, saying about me - instead of spending every precious second savouring, capturing and revelling in my time with my babies. Moments lost - never to be retrieved.
My mid-30s - a HUGE epiphany. An ugly, rude awakening - resulting in a spiritual and emotional journey which taught me to survive grief and sadness by taking the time to appreciate, to savour and to enjoy every blessing granted by the Almighty.
Blessings comprised of the little things - thoughtfulness on the part of Mo, an unexpected hug and kiss from the Shakeel (13) a heartwarming note of love and appreciation from Tharaa (10), a goodbye/ hello kiss from Nuha (7) during which she has to be pried away from me or giggles and kisses from Aisha (2).
Craziness on the part of the kids - like this morning when I stood in the driveway to see them off, the car doors were simultaneously flung open, as the occupants leaned out and delivered a loud (and rather drunken-sounding) rendition of ''Happy Birthday to you''. Or Shakeel's birthday card in which he pasted pictures of my family and loved ones - of Mo posing beardlessly, of him (Shakeel) holding a newborn Aisha, of Tharaa pulling a funny face, of Nuha smiling sweetly - and of Michael Jackson doing a signature Michael Jackson pose. They really know how to make me smile.
Already I'm feeling better and more contented. (Making sense of one's emotions by writing them down is one of the benefits of blogging). Not even a grumpy Aisha yelling and screaming, ''It's MY birthday, not mommy's!'' will disturb my peace of mind or minimise my gratitude for my 39 years of blessings.
Not for the obvious ''What do I have to show for my 39 years?'' or ''I haven't accomplished what I'd set out to'' - having four kids truly makes me feel more blessed than I'd ever thought possible. My sadness seems to be rooted in a deep nostalgia - a grieving that the past has passed, never to return. Despite my awareness and belief that there is still so much to be experienced.
My sadness is making me feel guilty. Ungrateful. At least I've made it thus far. So many people, who had been my age, didn't - Faghmi Smith, Gary May, Gadija Abbas etc.
I think back to my 20s. A period in my life when stupidity ruled the day; when bad decisions were made, the wrong people trusted. Yet, a time still filled with so much hope and (often misplaced) faith in others. Intense emotions - a spillover from my delayed adolescence. Happiness. Sadness. Hope. So much hope.
From my 20s to my mid-30s - wasting so much time thinking about what I should have done, could have done - instead of seizing the day there and then. Spending too much time caring about what others were thinking of me, saying about me - instead of spending every precious second savouring, capturing and revelling in my time with my babies. Moments lost - never to be retrieved.
My mid-30s - a HUGE epiphany. An ugly, rude awakening - resulting in a spiritual and emotional journey which taught me to survive grief and sadness by taking the time to appreciate, to savour and to enjoy every blessing granted by the Almighty.
Blessings comprised of the little things - thoughtfulness on the part of Mo, an unexpected hug and kiss from the Shakeel (13) a heartwarming note of love and appreciation from Tharaa (10), a goodbye/ hello kiss from Nuha (7) during which she has to be pried away from me or giggles and kisses from Aisha (2).
Craziness on the part of the kids - like this morning when I stood in the driveway to see them off, the car doors were simultaneously flung open, as the occupants leaned out and delivered a loud (and rather drunken-sounding) rendition of ''Happy Birthday to you''. Or Shakeel's birthday card in which he pasted pictures of my family and loved ones - of Mo posing beardlessly, of him (Shakeel) holding a newborn Aisha, of Tharaa pulling a funny face, of Nuha smiling sweetly - and of Michael Jackson doing a signature Michael Jackson pose. They really know how to make me smile.
Already I'm feeling better and more contented. (Making sense of one's emotions by writing them down is one of the benefits of blogging). Not even a grumpy Aisha yelling and screaming, ''It's MY birthday, not mommy's!'' will disturb my peace of mind or minimise my gratitude for my 39 years of blessings.
Saturday, 28 April 2012
Hip hip hooray - she's back!
My joyful, cute, smiling, adorable baby (2) has returned after weeks of hour-long tantrums, grumpiness and misery. I am experiencing all the relief of a person realising that the huge terrifying bear , which had been chasing her for miles, had been temporarily distracted by a jar of honey. Nervous joy. Knowing that the respite will most likely be short-lived. But so grateful for the fleeting relief.
Yesterday morning, as I heard her gradually awaken from her surprisingly sound restful sleep, my stomach did its usual nervous flip. What would she cry about? Would it be my hair? The fact that she didn't like what I was wearing? I held my breath.
''Mommy?'' she inquired, checking if I was nearby. I peered over the mountain of blankets which she had kicked off, nervously checking her expression. I was greeted by a huge smile - her increasingly- rare, nearly-forgotten beautiful smile. I choked back tears of relief and joy.
''Mommeeee!!!!'' she shrieked happily. Yes, happily! I prayed silently that her mood would last a while longer.
And it did. In fact it lasted for the whole day. And for the whole of this morning. There've been smiles, laughter, dancing and singing. So much joy. Mine and hers.
I've been planting dozens of kisses all over her chubby little face. I've missed her so much.
''I yuv you sooo muts'' (She still hasn't mastered saying the 'ch' sound, which makes her accent sound very Cape Flats), she said a million times, hugging me.
I loved it when she took my face in her hands, stared deeply into my eyes and said, ''You're a good girl, Mommy, '' echoing the words I'd been saying to her for the whole day. My desperate attempt at positive reinforcement - in the hopes that she'd remember those words when her next tantrum was about to hit. Hoping that she'd remember that she was a good girl - and that that realisation would magically defuse the explosion.
But thankfully it hasn't come to that yet. She has just finished breakfast, chatting away happily - after having spent a few minutes shaking her hips shamelessly to the neighbours' blaring ''I'm sexy and I know it''.
She is on her way to the doctor with her dad, where her liver will be examined to see if it has reduced in size (It had been a bit enlarged at last week's visit). I'm praying that everything is normal in that regard.
I'm so relieved and happy right now. Although this past week has been difficult I have never stopped counting and appreciating my blessings. Just now, with Aisha's return to her normal happy self, this has been so much easier to do.
Let's hope and pray that this light, joy and positive energy are here to stay.
Yesterday morning, as I heard her gradually awaken from her surprisingly sound restful sleep, my stomach did its usual nervous flip. What would she cry about? Would it be my hair? The fact that she didn't like what I was wearing? I held my breath.
''Mommy?'' she inquired, checking if I was nearby. I peered over the mountain of blankets which she had kicked off, nervously checking her expression. I was greeted by a huge smile - her increasingly- rare, nearly-forgotten beautiful smile. I choked back tears of relief and joy.
''Mommeeee!!!!'' she shrieked happily. Yes, happily! I prayed silently that her mood would last a while longer.
And it did. In fact it lasted for the whole day. And for the whole of this morning. There've been smiles, laughter, dancing and singing. So much joy. Mine and hers.
I've been planting dozens of kisses all over her chubby little face. I've missed her so much.
''I yuv you sooo muts'' (She still hasn't mastered saying the 'ch' sound, which makes her accent sound very Cape Flats), she said a million times, hugging me.
I loved it when she took my face in her hands, stared deeply into my eyes and said, ''You're a good girl, Mommy, '' echoing the words I'd been saying to her for the whole day. My desperate attempt at positive reinforcement - in the hopes that she'd remember those words when her next tantrum was about to hit. Hoping that she'd remember that she was a good girl - and that that realisation would magically defuse the explosion.
But thankfully it hasn't come to that yet. She has just finished breakfast, chatting away happily - after having spent a few minutes shaking her hips shamelessly to the neighbours' blaring ''I'm sexy and I know it''.
She is on her way to the doctor with her dad, where her liver will be examined to see if it has reduced in size (It had been a bit enlarged at last week's visit). I'm praying that everything is normal in that regard.
I'm so relieved and happy right now. Although this past week has been difficult I have never stopped counting and appreciating my blessings. Just now, with Aisha's return to her normal happy self, this has been so much easier to do.
Let's hope and pray that this light, joy and positive energy are here to stay.
Monday, 9 April 2012
First day back at school blues (mine)
Once again, as many stay-at-home mums heave a collective sigh of relief, I sit here sniffing into my tissues; missing my babies.
I've brushed hair, handed out lunches, checked signed reports, given giant bear hugs, planted a million kisses on cheeks - and waved a sad dramatic good-bye.
I miss them so much.
Last night I brought up the topic of homeschooling with Mo. What if we hire a retired teacher to assist me with the classes? Wouldn't we still be saving money if taking into account school fees and transport costs (I was grasping at straws; trying to convince him). Why subject them to potential peer pressure, bullying and negative influences?
Why couldn't they just stay home with me?
I miss them. I miss them. I know it's pathetic, but I really miss them.
Despite the constant bickering during this holiday that had me pulling at my hair; despite the constant mess that had me yelling and screaming.
I'm a sad pathetic mommy - whose life is way too wrapped up in those of her kids.
Not to mention a scared mommy - as I wait for two- year old tantrum-throwing Aisha to awaken. No Shakeel (12) to rush into the room first thing in the morning to marvel at his little sister, no Nuha (7) cause her first morning giggles and no Tharaa (10) to help her and comfort her like a little mommy. But fear of dealing with Aisha's moods alone is not the reason I'm missing the other kids so much.
I swear its not. Okay, maybe it is - a bit.
I step into their rooms which they have tidied all by themselves this morning. (They had taken my growling and threatening of last night seriously). My sweethearts!
Okay, I know that this is probably the most annoying post to which I've ever subjected anyone - so I'll stop. While I chew on my nails waiting for Aisha to awaken.
I've brushed hair, handed out lunches, checked signed reports, given giant bear hugs, planted a million kisses on cheeks - and waved a sad dramatic good-bye.
I miss them so much.
Last night I brought up the topic of homeschooling with Mo. What if we hire a retired teacher to assist me with the classes? Wouldn't we still be saving money if taking into account school fees and transport costs (I was grasping at straws; trying to convince him). Why subject them to potential peer pressure, bullying and negative influences?
Why couldn't they just stay home with me?
I miss them. I miss them. I know it's pathetic, but I really miss them.
Despite the constant bickering during this holiday that had me pulling at my hair; despite the constant mess that had me yelling and screaming.
I'm a sad pathetic mommy - whose life is way too wrapped up in those of her kids.
Not to mention a scared mommy - as I wait for two- year old tantrum-throwing Aisha to awaken. No Shakeel (12) to rush into the room first thing in the morning to marvel at his little sister, no Nuha (7) cause her first morning giggles and no Tharaa (10) to help her and comfort her like a little mommy. But fear of dealing with Aisha's moods alone is not the reason I'm missing the other kids so much.
I swear its not. Okay, maybe it is - a bit.
I step into their rooms which they have tidied all by themselves this morning. (They had taken my growling and threatening of last night seriously). My sweethearts!
Okay, I know that this is probably the most annoying post to which I've ever subjected anyone - so I'll stop. While I chew on my nails waiting for Aisha to awaken.
Thursday, 2 February 2012
Trying to make sense of intense loss- a prayer for my cousin and his wife
This post is being written through blinding tears, so may not be too coherent.
Earlier this week at about midnight my cousin and his wife found that their darling 3 month old baby girl had passed away in her cot- suddenly and inexpicably.
When I saw them later that day I found myself unable to approach them. What did one say in the face of such overwhelming gut-wrenching grief?
I only saw my cousin's wife (the baby's mother) briefly. I was in awe of her composure at that moment (although I realise I was only seeing her for a brief moment). I was pushed by my aunt to greet my cousin. His face revealed his shock and anguish. I hugged him and babbled, "I don't know what to say" repeatedly, inadequately- but truthfully. I didn't know what to say in the face of such intense agony.
Actually, I knew all the right things to say. I know everything which THEORETICALLY should grant one comfort. But nothing I could say could take away their pain. I wished so much that there was a way to relieve their pain.
Yesterday his Facebook status read: "
I pray that Allah/God eases their pain (and that of the baby's sister, grandparents and others who had been close to her) and grants them the strength to get through this period of sorrow and bereavement, Insha-Allah (God-willing)
Earlier this week at about midnight my cousin and his wife found that their darling 3 month old baby girl had passed away in her cot- suddenly and inexpicably.
When I saw them later that day I found myself unable to approach them. What did one say in the face of such overwhelming gut-wrenching grief?
I only saw my cousin's wife (the baby's mother) briefly. I was in awe of her composure at that moment (although I realise I was only seeing her for a brief moment). I was pushed by my aunt to greet my cousin. His face revealed his shock and anguish. I hugged him and babbled, "I don't know what to say" repeatedly, inadequately- but truthfully. I didn't know what to say in the face of such intense agony.
Actually, I knew all the right things to say. I know everything which THEORETICALLY should grant one comfort. But nothing I could say could take away their pain. I wished so much that there was a way to relieve their pain.
Yesterday his Facebook status read: "
I pray that Allah/God eases their pain (and that of the baby's sister, grandparents and others who had been close to her) and grants them the strength to get through this period of sorrow and bereavement, Insha-Allah (God-willing)
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