Paintings in Motherhood

If I could paint, I would sit in front of a mirror and trace the delicate and strong parts of myself, so that I don’t miss a thing. I would trace along my body contours, both old and new just to show you motherhood. It can’t all be displayed in one ordinary painting, as this is a tale of strength in a mist of fragility wrapping me in a weakness that I can’t explain. So, there will be many canvases depicting the happy times, which are precious and wholesome and the other times which are not so few and far in between. There would be canvases showing you my evolution, from the look on my face wondering if this is my body, sagging breasts that ache when my baby cries, stretch marks showing the remnants of my body’s journey to my wide back and the dreaded mummy pouch which seems not to go as fast as I want. Did social media lie? What do you mean it is my body type?

You would see swollen wrists from lifting my bundle of joy, sunken eyes and a grimace from a lack of sleep, which has made my face its home. A sign of permanency perhaps, or maybe nostalgia, who knows? On some you would see milk stains, but thankfully you won’t see the smell. No one can and no one should, except your baby. You would see my cry for help and sigh of relief but also that fleeting sign of guilt which makes me wonder if that moment of peace I crave makes me a bad mother…am I abandoning my baby? You would see the different feeding positions I try to muster, forcing my body to bend beyond its level of flexibility. Like Michelangelo’s ‘The Creation of Adam’, my hand stretches towards my unyielding baby, almost there but never touching. As my body aches in agony surrounded but still yearning for the comforts it once enjoyed but is now lost.

For some, the changes are so much deeper and cuts into the very soul of their existence. This, I cannot paint or make an attempt with my words. Because if I did, I would be drawn in; it is easy to be drawn in. It would be a tale of horrors and despair, showing the loneliness, the unending scream, the brokenness and the tears. Like ‘The Scream’ by Edvard Munch, a lone man on the bridge clutching his face in wanton fear, surrounded by happy friends walking by and conversing. They never truly see him and therefore cannot understand his experience. A seemingly never-ending cycle of your heart never slowing as it responds in fear to what your eyes have just beheld; aren’t we all seeing the blood red sky?

So, with her knees to her chest, she clutches herself. Slowly, she rocks back and forth in a bath tub filled with cold water, as she tries her hardest to feel something, anything. But her body is now lifeless, trying its hardest to recover, while in the shallow tub it seems like she is trying to hold her head above water, barely able to breath. It just cried; it lives while I die. The painting would show the regret and a sliver of hope as she tries to reach out and love this being that she calls her own. But her soul retracts in pain, as one who has put her hand into the burning flame. It won’t matter that it cannot fend for itself as she cannot comprehend what her mind and body just went through; why did this happen to me? Why is this happening to me? It lives; while I die. I would paint with black and blues, reds and greys. With painful, aggressive strokes, telling a tale of love laced with hatred and forgotten freedom. And she would wonder, ‘if I could turn back the hands of time, would I do it all again?’ Again, this I cannot paint or make an attempt with my words. Because if I did, I would be drawn in. I don’t want to be drawn in.

But beneath my evolution and the silent tears, if you looked closely at my painting, you would see the warm smiles and my baby’s heartfelt laughter. You would see him struggle with his small strength, breathing heavily from sheer tiredness as he tries to touch my face. Finally completing Michelangelo’s ‘The Creation of Adam’, he holds on tightly to my index finger, promising to never let go. You would see the love in my eyes as he sucks and sucks away. But my dopamine levels drop at an accelerating rate, as monsters rise behind me trying to envelope me with a sadness I cannot explain. Suddenly, the love in my eyes fade away while my homely grimace knocks aggressively at its door. But my baby warmly smiles up at me. Still holding on to my finger, he pulls me from the brink of despair. And as the monsters dissipate one by one, he saves me from myself. You would see happy feet that kick out at me while he giggles and laughs. They stand strong and sturdy as he tries to stand on his own and learn about his world. You would see my eyes glisten with joy as my baby smiles at me because I am the most important person in his universe. No one can contend this fact.

You would see him reach out for me when his body begins to fail him. Without understanding human nature, he rubs his eyes in tiredness and cuddles close to sleep. As I hold him close to my chest, you would see that feral instinct that makes a mother protect her young at the cost of her life. You would see growth; you would see acceptance. You would see undeniable love. You would see motherhood in all its glory, pain, scars and beauty. Against delicate shadows, softness and warmth. You would see light blues and yellows, oranges and greens, soft pinks against the backdrop, and whites and blacks for contrast. You would see a mixture of happiness and love, sadness and strength all rolled up in beautiful works of art, my paintings in motherhood. You would see what God created and aimed to protect at a much greater cost.