How do you cope mothers?
As I lay in bed, my body aching from malaria's cruel grasp, I can't help but feel frustrated at my limitations. I'm usually the first one up ,preparing breakfast, lunches, backpacks. The rhythm of our morning routine. I bet they knew something was off when they slept longer than they usually do, on a school day, worst still, I couldn't get myself out of bed for a while, seeing I had no one around to help me as their father was out on a business trip, I had to gather every ounce of strength just to make sure the girls were fed and off to school before collapsing back under the covers.
I feel the weight of expectation as the doting mother, the tireless provider, the steady constant in my children's lives. And yet malaria forces me to confront my humanity. As much as I try to be the unbreakable, always-strong mommy, I'm still subject to the confines of this mortal form. The nurse arrived with some medication, I had put a call to her, she is our family nurse, always available in times like this, also added bed rest to the prescription, apparently, I've been over-stressed lately, from early rising to prepare my kids for school, to keeping late nights so I could meet up with my job to provide financial support to my family, all these coupled together was the cause of my ill health and of course malaria. As a working mum who also gives her full time and attention to her children, resting seems like an alien word to me, but my body says otherwise, so I will give in to the rest while I take my drugs, so I can come back stronger to take care of my children, mothers do learn to rest while giving your kids your all.
My daughters' reactions pierce my heart even through the fog of fever. Their innocent questions, "Mummy, are you okay?" "Where does it hurt?" My six-year-old so matter of factly stating she'll be a doctor one day to "make me feel fine." It's in these tender moments that I'm reminded of the sacred bond we share. As much as they rely on me, I rely on them too, for purpose and meaning when physical strength falters.
I catch glimpses of their empathy now as they tiptoe around my room, so careful not to disturb mommy's rest. They ate without fuss or protest this morning, sensitive to my need for quiet. My girls have always been wise beyond their years, but today it feels as if they have aged 10 years in compassion and self-sufficiency in response to my illness. We mothers marvel at how our babies transform seemingly overnight into young ladies with grace, tact, and emotional intelligence.
As I surrender to stillness, I realize how this forced break is its own gift, as frustrating as it feels. A chance to really receive and be touched by my daughters' care without the endless tasks shouting for my attention. An opportunity to let them step up and shine. Medication, fluids, and rest will help get my body back on track. But the care woven between mother and daughters, that invisible, precious strand, will long outlast any ill health. I will emerge on the other side more committed to sharing that power with my girls.
All images used are mine