I have been writing flowery poetry in the honour of my daughter on Instagram. It all looks idyllic but what I have been hiding all along is the mom rage and how I nearly and completely get consumed in it almost everyday. I don’t want to confront this muck behind the veneer of perfect poetry. But it’s hard to pretend and not talk about it. 

If my daughter decides to stay awake past her bedtime, my irritation starts to tick as well. I sit blankly with her, while the ferry of unread articles dance in front of my eyes. I look at the clock, it’s nearing midnight. She hasn’t slept yet so I take her to bed. I anxiously start thumping her in the hope that she will recognise the ritual that gets herself to sleep. But she doesn’t and I continue to thump and then thump hard that makes her cry. I cry with her and neither sleep nor study that night. I curse myself for having ambition or goals. At what cost am I set out to achieve these goals? Will I tolerate it from anybody what I just did to my daughter? 

If my daughter doesn’t want to tie her hair or dress up, she will jeopardise her birthday shoot and my desire for a perfect family picture. The rat race is for memories, right? She will later look back at it with fondness. But at what cost? Fuelled in irritation, I pull her closer to me. As she pulls herself away, the hair-clips graze against her head.  She starts crying inconsolably. Looking at her, my eyes well up, consumed in guilt. Clearly, neither of us wanted the pressure of a big birthday bash. I just wanted to be with her somewhere in a quieter place, spending time with her away from the phones and cameras directed towards us at the stage. 

If I am advised and God forbid it, I am not taking one more without throwing a rage. As my pregnant belly has shrunk so has my capacity of accommodating advices more often than not unsolicited. Why? Because I really struggle with her sometimes and I don’t want people making a show of it or worse label me as incompetent. In their opinion, not seeking help and doing everything on my own is egoistic. But mostly, the biggest help to me is being left alone in navigating the chaos. A day of help is not going to solve it because the triggers are constant. 

So these three instances have been the three struggles that I deal with everyday in different flavours : I struggle with myself, my daughter and the people around me. Clearly, since her birth, my self- worth has taken a newer hit. So words like arrows penetrate easily or anything well- intentioned gets easily misinterpreted. Had I been recovered of this unending malaise of navigating my path to a fulfilling life, maybe I would have been in a better state of mind and have probably not made motherhood a contest of competence. What launchpad have I prepared for my daughter, I think of it everyday! So until then, this cushion is made, raising my daughter well has been my only job. It should be, right? But I wish not my only job and perhaps not associated with mothers only.