To Be Them & Motherhood
BY MONA RAY
To Be Them
Photo Courtesy | Mona Ray
To be them.
I sat still in their playful screams and laughs.
It was music. Distant, yet steps away.
I leaned over the kitchen sink with coffee too strong for the hour and watched them through the window.
My seven year old daughter plays in the garden with my five year old nephew—their tiny hands gripping cheap, plastic, broken toys and finding joy in an imaginary situation while iridescent dragonflies fly around their heads.
It was the way the sun kissed their cheeks.
The way time stopped for them.
The way that time for myself seemed so close yet so far away.
I remember the blood on my knees and the way my mother used to make them burn with alcohol after I’d fall off my bike, or lose balance on my roller blades.
It was the way I knew they didn’t have to worry about lunch or dinner, because I’d make it for them.
How happy I was for them. To know I was once there. To know I’m now where my mother once was.
I remember Sprite and peanut butter jelly by the pool.
My dad would be overseas for months at a time and she just wanted to make sure we were busy.
Luckily the base was always equipped with activities. Parks, fields, bowling alleys, a pool, even a movie theater.
I glance down at my Filipino hands and study the wrinkles of my knuckles. Ol’ lady hands, we used to say. All Filipino women have the hands of their ancestors.
I was 21 with ol’ lady hands, when I had my first born.
It was said to be an honor, if you inherited these.
I could only pray to be as soft as my ancestors felt.
My hands might be motherly, but they were big. Strong. Masculine at times. Not dainty, or pretty. I couldn’t be a hand model or something. I’ve bit my nails since I was eight. But I could carry my 40 pound child from the couch to her bed. I could carry all of our groceries in one trip. I wasn’t afraid to get these hands dirty. I wasn’t afraid to punch someone in their jaw if it meant protecting my kids.
I know I wasn’t afraid to, but . . . I still pray I would never have to.
I guess my ancestors knew I’d be a single mom even if just for a bit.
So they gave me these hands.
Looking back out of the window, they laugh and scream and throw the toys at each other, and I smile.
When adults laugh, it doesn’t always feel real. There’s sometimes a hint of sadness, or masking.
My daughter laughed loudly with that sincerity that comes from a happy belly, and the birds sang for her.
My nephew screamed playfully again and it was as if the wind ran its fingers through his hair.
The soil in the garden was just soft enough for them to fall in.
To be them. Why doesn’t it feel that far away?
To know if they needed it, I’d be right there with a band-aid and the same, loving, alcohol burn for their scratches.
In the event that they tripped and the concrete wasn’t so nice to them.
To know I would be. I would always be. It was more than a promise to them, but feeling, remembering, what I needed back then.
I wouldn’t blame them for tripping.
I wouldn’t blame them for falling.
To know that if they started crying, if they became sad for whatever reason, I’d be there for them to talk to. To listen to them. To tell them how supported and protected they are.
I wouldn’t wave them off.
I would never.
I think that’s why we lose our voice sometimes. To learn and grow until we know exactly what to say—especially to one another.
Especially to our kids.
I look at my daughter.
Our daughters.
They always seem to be so much better than we were, right? Especially at seven years old.
She falls into the garden straight onto her face. She rolls over, nudging into a bundle of sprouting collard greens, and I’d bet the neighborhood could hear her joyful echoes.
I’d bet the vibrations of it probably made better vegetables.
That the soil was better for growing simply because she existed.
I’d say the trees swayed just for her.
And the sun shined, just for her.
A mother’s instinct.
The sound. Her smile. It’s the same smile from when she was five. And three. The same smile when she first laughed at only a few months old.
Their smiles.
Their smiles are my favorite thing.
The sound gets stuck in my aura and soaks a few inches into my rib cage.
It tickled—a laugh leaves me as I felt a wet gratitude leave my eyes.
She will be better than me, I say aloud. She will be.
I will make sure of it.
In the way that my mom still makes sure of it, regardless of our ages now.
Motherhood
The grip on the hospital bed matched the grit in my clenched jaw.
The hot, shredding pain in my lower abdomen met with the low groans of endlessness.
Twenty-four hours of labor.
I forgot the discomfort of every second endured when you were placed in my arms.
I remember your tiny fingers, your tiny toes . . .
I know those will one day make and take you great distances.
I became 1,000 things because you chose me.
I would only ever want you to be the best you, you could ever be.
To clean your boo-boo’s, to wash your hands for you, to be your forever friend.
I’d like to think I was your mama in every of one of our lifetimes.
You are my favorite adventure.
MONA RAY is a Filipino-American professional dancer, artist, and new writer. She has been working as a creative/visual director for over 10 years—from set design, to professional photography, she moves to tell stories centered around diversity and self-expression through various artistic mediums. She enjoys comedy, gaming, cooking, gardening and hanging out with her husband and children. They live the RV life, homeschooling and traveling across the country full-time.