By: Staff Contributor
Becoming a mother—it’s an honor, a seismic shift in identity, a constant negotiation between immense love and utter exhaustion. There are moments, small and seemingly insignificant to the outside world, that crystallize the entire beautiful, messy journey. Just the other day, my little man, my firstborn, came to me with that focused look he gets when he’s deep in thought. He was holding a pencil, navigating the unfamiliar shapes of letters, and he asked me how to spell ‘ማ’ and ‘ሚ’ in Amharic. He’s at that precious stage of discovering the magic locked within letters and numbers, his eagerness to learn and understand spilling out of him. He loves school with a fierce, uncomplicated passion, a place of wonder he wouldn't miss for anything.
He sounded out the letters, forming 'ማሚ' or mommy, and then, pausing, looked up at me with those earnest eyes and proceeded to ask how to spell 'እወድሻለው' 'ewedshalew.' My heart skipped a beat because I knew, just knew, what he wanted to write. It wasn't the first time he'd composed this particular message. He was painstakingly putting together the Amharic words for "Mommy, I love you."
Witnessing him, so young and just beginning to unlock the mystery of written language, choose that sentence, that declaration, as one of the very first things he wanted to commit to paper… It brought an unexpected rush of tears to my eyes. It was a moment so pure, so brimming with uncomplicated affection, that I wished I could somehow freeze time, bottle the feeling, and keep it forever. I honestly don't think anyone else on this earth has ever made me feel quite as profoundly loved as he does in those simple, unguarded expressions. In his gaze, I am his entire world, the sun around which he orbits, and that perception, while humbling, fills me with an immense sense of pride and an urgent desire to be the best mother I can possibly be not only for him but for his sister, too.
My little girl, in her own wonderfully unique way, offers that same potent dose of love. She doesn't articulate it in written words yet, but her love is in her small hand constantly reaching for mine and in her insistence on being wherever I am, doing whatever I'm doing. She doesn't want me to leave her side, not for a moment. It’s a different expression of that same deep need, that same powerful bond.
As they grow older, as independence beckons and the world outside our home becomes more compelling, they will naturally drift a little further, seeking their own paths. But for now, this stage of absolute reliance, of wanting my constant presence, makes me feel undeniably important, essential in a way nothing else ever has.
Don't misunderstand, though. This isn't a perfect, rose-tinted picture. There are plenty of moments when I yearn for solitude, for just five consecutive minutes without someone yelling my name from another room or without a small person tugging at my sleeve to show me something I've already seen ten times (and nodded enthusiastically at each time) while I'm trying desperately to focus on work. There are battles of will, the insistence that only I can oversee the handwashing ritual or that a meal will only be eaten if I am sitting right beside them. The burden of being the default person for everything is very real, and it can be heavy.
Alongside the demands comes the constant hum of anxiety, the low drum of worry that seems to be the soundtrack of motherhood. Are they safe playing outside, away from my immediate gaze? Will they navigate the complexities of friendships without being hurt or bullied? Are they okay when they are in school, venturing into a world where I cannot shield them? This worry can be consuming, a shadow that follows you even on the brightest days.
Yet, paradoxically, in the quiet moments, when the house is still because they are at school or asleep, there's a strange emptiness. We find ourselves a little lost, not quite knowing what to do with the silence, with the lack of little bodies needing things. We miss the noise, the delightful (and sometimes irritating) distractions, and the sheer, vibrant presence that fills our lives. It’s a peculiar form of longing for the very chaos that sometimes drives you to the brink.
Despite the complaints and the yelling that sometimes escapes when patience runs thin (which, let's be honest, feels like 70% of the time on challenging days), I am profoundly grateful to be called 'Mom'. It is an honor I wear with a fierce, protective pride. My children, with all their demands and their boundless love, have given my life a singular purpose. They are, without question, my greatest achievements, the most significant contribution I feel I will ever make to the world.
Sometimes, in moments of quiet reflection or perhaps when wrestling with a particularly tricky parenting puzzle, I'll even ask the Creator, with a touch of teasing wonder, "You seriously entrusted me—clumsy, directionally challenged, often distracted me—with these tiny, precious human beings? Like, I can barely keep track of my phone!" But deep down, beneath the self-deprecating humor, I know that this role, this connection, was destined. The Creator entrusted them to my care, and it is my fundamental job, my privilege, to handle this trust with the utmost love and responsibility.
There's a comfort in believing that everything unfolds as it is meant to, perfectly designed. And I understand that with challenge comes strength, and eventually, ease. The only true way we grow, physically, emotionally, and spiritually, is by navigating those challenges.
So yes, I often think of the mothers who came before me, my mother and grandmother, my dear aunt who raised me with such love, my mother-in-law, and all the countless strong women who have nurtured and guided generations. But more than anyone, I think of my children. They are the living, breathing gift that gave me the extraordinary honor of becoming a mother, and for that, I will be eternally grateful.