Motherhood

In the still of the night

It’s 11pm.

The boys are sleeping in their room. The husband is out for a work do. I am sitting at the balcony while a chill playlist is running in the living room, out of our Apple TV. A glass of wine – Brown Brothers’ Rosa Moscato, because I cannot resist any wine that is delicately sweet – while a breeze ruffles my air-dried hair.

It is moments like these which fill me with a gentle longing to quieter days and times. I am by nature an introvert. I don’t like mingling and I don’t like big parties. Seat me opposite a good friend, however, and we can chat for hours and hours.

Like today. I had taken the day off to spend it with the littlest at his school’s Chinese New Year celebrations. He had been hoping that we’d go and so we did. And then I took him along with me to meet Yuling after the crazy tornado known as “children’s party” ended.

We sat in the cosy cafe run by the warmest of people – I mean, they actually entertained Z and his relentless stream of questions and activity! – and we caught up. For three hours, the conversation didn’t dither, except for the times when I had to accompany the little one to the toilet as he, well, took a dump. A few dumps, actually (totally his father’s child, this one).

And that sort of interaction and connection nourishes me. Just as me, sitting alone at the balcony in the still of the night, makes me feel alive.

I have two boys whom I love to the moon and back. But they are also two very noisy, rambunctious, highly energetic boys. And sometimes it gets just too much for my introvert self, especially after a long day at work with the groups of teenagers who can be equally – if not more – demanding.

It’s a struggle on many days.

I recognise that to retreat on tough days is not a sign of weakness. It isn’t a sign that I am a terrible mother or human being. It’s a sign of awareness, a moment that will grant me the recharge that I need in order to function as a better mother.

And so I head into the bedroom and put a workout on on my laptop or phone. Or I hide in the bathroom. Or I lie in bed and empty all thoughts from my mind. Some evenings, all it takes is 20 minutes. But there are also times when I would hide for as long as is necessary. Whatever it takes for me to recalibrate and decompress.

I know that these days won’t last very long. After all, the days are long but the years are short. The days of them needing me to brush their teeth or cuddle them to sleep or fill their love tanks are not going to be forever. But there are no prizes for pushing through pain and exhaustion and frustration. The journey is not a sprint but a marathon.

And this is why I relish these quiet moments at the balcony.