On Motherhood At Nineteen -Anne Etosudo

I’m not a real mother, at least not in the way you’re thinking. While I’m biologically related to the ones I call my children, society wouldn’t phrase it that way. They’d look at us, laugh at the depth of our relationship and give us a lazy, supposedly more meaningful term to“ use—“siblings”. And I’d bare my whites, burying my self-confidence, pretending that I didn’t feel like I’d done so much more than watch these kids grow up.

My real mother and I did not have such a cordial relationship growing up. I’d often joke with my “sister” that I didn’t need a teenage boy to show me what a toxic relationship was when I had her. I could never laugh, shake my head, hiss or scoff at the women who stayed even when they weren’t getting what they needed because I knew what it was like to be them. I understood how easy it could be to give to the fallacy of “change” and cling on too tightly to hope.

She was an abrasive woman, my mother—particularly in my youth. She never hesitated to say whatever it was that was on her mind, even if it meant using a hammer to fix broken glass. My pre-teens were some of the worst years of my life. I would walk along the street, hoping that a speeding vehicle would clear me right off like the mistake that I was. I’d cry myself to sleep at night, waiting, hoping to die because I was too much of a coward to do the dastardly act myself. My mother was human; she was naturally concerned. Her own blood and flesh were recoiling, drawing inward like a snail too terrified to crawl out of its shell. But she was only trying to clean up the mess she’d made after stabbing me with words so many times.

I grew up and she stopped. I think we both grew up, actually. I was old enough now—both in mind and body—to handle myself, to know better than to disgrace my family name. She noticed this and she became a calmer, much milder version of herself. She hardly ever raised her voice at my “siblings”.

She’d only resort to insults when she was at her wits end, and even then, she was very restrained. Instead of resorting to the harsh, often brutal measures she’d used to shape me, she’d try to negotiate with these terrorists, telling them sweet things to their faces but often complaining and ranting to me behind their backs. That was when it occurred to me that I’d been promoted. I wasn’t just a test subject anymore; I was a part of the team. I was the third parent.

I had been given power. And while I’d watched others with my role turn their siblings into mini punching bags, taking on the role of pharaoh and terrorising them, I was determined not to let the power corrupt me. I was kind to these children who knew not what awaited them at the end of their childhood.

I took them under my wing, sharing stories and secrets, bringing up deeper concepts only when I felt they’d become of age. It worked for the firstborn. She has a good life, the one I would probably have lived if my parents hadn’t used every aspect of my life as a social experiment. But raising the lastborn has been one of my hardest learning experiences. No one ever warned me about the complexity of the term “preferential treatment”. Nobody taught me that even from birth, there are some favours that men are entitled to that women will never be able to experience or enjoy.

My brother was never to be deprived of anything good, even if that was to the detriment of every other person. He was a boy, so there was no need to insult him so he’d learn to clean up after himself. He had older women in his house who could do that for him. He was a boy, so he could turn a space upside down and rot in front of the tv for hours on end. He was a boy so his bad manners would not result in family disgrace; there was nothing he could do to drag our family name through the mud. He was a boy and he sure as hell enjoyed being one.

I would raise my voice, scream at him and nearly implode because he often made it his life’s mission to drive me mad. My mother reassured me that as he aged, he’d grow out of his ambition but age only gave him more ideas, made him harder to control. It got to a point that even my mother, the “iron woman” of my youth could do nothing to change him. My father, his proudest enabler was teaching him that it was okay to step on women as long as they didn’t exploit you. You didn’t really have to respect your elders, you just had to make sure that they could do nothing about your disrespect.

As I battled with my brother’s unruliness and quelled the inner tantrums of my heart, I began to think a bit more deeply of my mother. Were all children like my “siblings” had been in their prime? Had I often been a nuisance, depriving her of peace without meaning to? Maybe she’d been scared that I’d desert her, become someone she could not control, a person she couldn’t confide in. She knew that harder days were coming, and in her own twisted but understandable way, she was preparing me for those days.

Empathy erased the anger and disappointment in my heart and replaced it with a newer kindness. It occurred to me that maybe she let my brother roam free because she was tired of being an “iron woman”, tired of raising her voice, tired of doing things that strained her muscles and made her age faster.

She had done a good job instilling in me the much-needed virtues of discipline and respect. In her own way, she was handing me the baton and telling me that I could go on. She didn’t want to have to fight off my father’s influence when it came to my brother or anything else anymore. It was my turn to do the fighting, to watch out for the children in ways that she might be unable to.

I am often filled to the brim with guilt. I often sit and imagine a life without me in it, a life where she had been free to do what she wanted and put herself first. I wonder if maybe I had gotten in the way of that, stealing her youth from her without even trying.

She had been trying her hardest to raise me and I’d been busy, wishing that I was dead. Did she resent me? Loathing every minute of those preteen years, wishing she had a daughter who could cook, clean, comfort and excel academically all at once. Had I been enough to make up for all the years that had been given away? Was I enough now? These were the questions that often haunted me on the nights that sleep was scarce, gnawing away at any peace that tried to come near. I try hard to push them down now, telling myself that we’re cordial now and that she loves me. But how do I know that? Why couldn’t I have been a better daughter to my mother?

Motherhood is shedding off old skin and climbing into a new one. It involves cutting off the scales of entitlement and selfishness and embracing a newer version of you, one that would often have to stomach wickedness and pretend that you did not see certain wrongs. We all love to call ourselves “Proverbs 31 girlies” but do we really understand what that scripture requires of us? We all want to be married mothers but have we ever thought of the sacrifices and the pain that come with being the soothsayer of every loved one?

Even I admit that I have only ever tasted this life; I have done much but maybe the world is right. Maybe I am not worthy enough to be called the mother of these wonderful, often misunderstood children whom I have watched grow. I do not know if I am enough for them now, just as I doubted my worth in my mother’s eyes then.

I want to love them in ways that I have never been loved and become their best friend, but I often find myself entangled in my mother’s bad habits, constantly berating and insulting them. I want the best results but I don’t know how to achieve them. I feel trapped within the confines of my insecurities and doubts, wanting to be better but not knowing how exactly I can become better.

My mother is not the best person in the world. She often drove me to the extremities of anxiety and depression, trying to see how much she could push me before I tipped over. She was both understanding and extreme, just as she was both judgmental and empathetic. But I realize now that nobody can replace her. Even I with all the books I have read and tutorials I have watched could never replace her. She was trying to take on a task that often scared, overwhelmed and depressed her all at once. I hope that she knows that I see her efforts and I understand why she had to be so hard on me. I pray that my children see mine as well and my mistakes do not cloud their eyes to my love.