I am mother before anything else.

As human beings, we each have a large number of facets and dimensions to us.These may compete from time to time, wishing to be seen, to be known in a particular circumstance.  There are those we prefer to keep private, those we loathe and wish to change.

And then there are those that we are proud of- that we nurture and develop and refine and are happy for the world to know us by, happy to put on display for all to see.

For me, that facet is mother. I am mother before anything else.

I am mother, because I have been blessed with a home-full of children.

I am mother, because God entrusted me with the single most important job in the world.

I am mother, because my children tell me so, every day, in many different ways: it is in the way they look at me, in the way they kiss me good morning and good night; its in their hugs and their tantrums, its in their unconditional love even when I feel like I'm failing.

I am mother through the good times and the trying times, through the laughter and the tears, through the trials and triumphs.

I am mother when I'm strong and when I'm weak, when I'm feeling competent and when I'm not so competent.

I am mother, mum, mama, mummy, and muuuuuum (when I'm being called to wipe a bottom, or pour a glass of juice, or mend a scraped knee) and a slightly different MUUUUUMMM (when I'm being called to mediate a fight, or dishing out unpopular consequences or when I'm embarrassing them by singing too loud in the car as we approach their school drop-off).

I am mother every minute of every day and every night and will be for the rest of my life. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Alhamdulilah.

That which cannot be named.

Sometimes, its collapsing in a fit of tears.
Sometimes, its darkness at the end of the tunnel.
Sometimes, its inexplicable but very real pain.
Sometimes, its utter despair.
Sometimes, its extended bouts of apathy.
Sometimes, its languishing in low mood.
Sometimes, its desperately wanting to be seen.
Sometimes, its desperately wanting not to be seen.
Sometimes, its complete emotional exhaustion.
And sometimes, its nothing at all.

A poem.

In the garden, a wooden swing hangs from the blossoming Jacaranda-
In the distance, it appears almost faultless- a portrait of childhood perfection
Edge closer though, and the deep, engraved marks
Halt the image, unveiling truer histories- some painful, some triumphant- all
Desperately wanting, desperately craving to be known.