What does it mean to be a parent?
People who have had children and those who have not have children may have very different visions. This new life that has come to the world has brought us more than a few cries.
” No woman is born to be a mother”, the process of becoming a mother may cost much more and change.
The following article shows us the author’s thinking as a mother.
If you were born a parent, you will surely feel the same. If you haven’t had a child yet, then this article makes you understand each other better.
Being a parent is very much like a social experiment, something a scientist would do: leave a baby and two adults in one room and observe what will happen.
The baby cried. The cry was loud and urgent, similar to the sound of a fire alarm. The woman picked up the baby. The crying stopped. She tried to put the baby down, then it cried again. She held it for a long time. The man was impatient. The woman tried to put it down, but it cried. The woman was tired, then she gave the baby to the man.
The baby cried. The man walked up and down with the baby in his arms, and the baby stopped crying. Men are tired. Both men and women sat down and looked anxiously at the baby.
They were too tired to speak, but at least they stopped the baby crying. They felt as if they had made some achievements. The baby began to cry again. It cried too much. They hated it. Every time it doesn’t cry, they are greatly relieved. They like this feeling very much.
This kind of situation occurs constantly, but experiments show that it is more and more difficult to find a way to stop the crying of babies. Soon, they went to great lengths and exhausted all their efforts to settle the matter. They cannot rest or rely on outside forces.
The experiment was carried out day and night. The couple must arrange the order and time of sleeping, which is the main reason for their argument. If one person goes out, another person will feel unfair. Even going out to work is considered a simple and attractive option.
The experiment can be made larger by introducing more babies and changing the experimental conditions. The latter requires all or any of the following factors:
The baby’s development process, including crying, rolling down the table, climbing out of the window, coughing, falling down and other dangerous and conspicuous behaviors, requires parents to pay attention to them all the time.
Let the room appear dust, make it a mess, there are some common messy phenomenon in the home, no matter how hard people try, can’t eradicate these problems;
There are attractive opposite sex without children in the conversation of working partners.
Outside members will occasionally make anxious phone calls. They discuss their social life on the phone and propose to come and stay for half an hour before attending a party apparently held next door to your home. They will also make some comments that you no longer understand, such as ” I caught a cold and stayed in bed for three days” and obviously won’t say ” why don’t I hold the baby for a while so that you can rest for a while”.
No matter how hard I try to keep myself and keep fit, within the scope of this test, it is like trying to keep a patient awake after being drugged. I believe my willpower can keep me floating on the water without being submerged. But consciousness itself will be dismissed and secretly destroyed by the reproductive process.
Due to having children, I have created a hostile consciousness. Because of my sense of responsibility, it easily controls me and makes me weaker and weaker, with only a little left.
My daughter quickly took my place and became my primary concern. I became an unfinished task, a phone call that I didn’t seem to be able to dial out, a bill that I didn’t have time to pay. Like an unattended garden, my life has a fiery atmosphere.
Strangely, this kind of neglect tormented me most in the most superficial place: with the birth of the baby, vanity’s life was also disillusioned.
I have a habit of dressing up myself. When it disappears, I begin to cherish it, just like suddenly I no longer express my love. This habit proves that I care. Without it, I will feel that I can only obey helplessly in private. This makes me feel sad, as if the optimistic side of my life has been revealed.
I sometimes think back to the days when I had to worry about constantly – as a self-conscious child, an anxious girl and a woman trying to become fashionable, I would be surprised to find that it might have suddenly ended because it was a gentle civilization, a city built by my daily life.
The last chapter of this history – pregnancy – is as vivid as the others: there is no sign that it will end, nor is there any clue as to how things will change. It seems that some kind of disaster has appeared and destroyed me, such as earthquake, meteor falling, etc.
I looked at my old photos and found that they looked like Pompeii’s casting moulds, like the dead who were frozen in time for nothing. I often go to the ruins of my body, it is a sad and uneasy soul; I feel exposed, exposed to the sun and rain, and under the supervision of others.
I know that for me, the future does exist, but due to planning problems and a backlog of to-do items in management, I have stopped. Anyway, I don’t have much hope for the future. My daughter’s lively little body occupies all my time. It is like a new house and a new project.
If I can find time to travel, return to myself, return to the ruins, and apply a hard coat of paint on it before the cold winter of the Middle Ages strikes, I will be very lucky.
It takes a lot of effort to keep my daughter pure and shining.
At first, my relationship with this life was similar to my relationship with the kidney. I have to dispose of its excrement. Every three hours, I pour milk into my daughter’s mouth. It is discharged again after passing through a series of pipes. I’ll get rid of it. Every 24 hours, I bathe her in water. I changed her clothes. If she stays indoors for a period of time, I will take her outside.
If she stays outdoors for a period of time, I will bring her back indoors. I put her down while she was sleeping. I picked her up when she woke up. When she cried, I held her up and down until she stopped crying. I added clothes to her and undressed her.
I irrigate her with love, sometimes worrying about giving her too much love, sometimes worrying about giving her not enough love. Taking care of her is like taking care of the weather and planting grass: my special relationship with time has changed.
Although these tasks are not too heavy, they have already constituted some form of serfdom or slavery because my actions are restricted. This change makes people feel humble. At the same time, it also symbolizes my thinking about freedom in the past and evading responsibilities.
My daily work as a mother has worn away my skin, but occasionally I find some predictable integrity and some other freedom in it: from complexity and choice, also from the paper made up of time without papers, on which I once recorded my life and shouldered the responsibility of being the author of these words.
What I can’t escape is that I said goodbye to my gender easily in this last feeling. The state of being a mother confirms my natural fear of doing something. It is a demotion, a dismissal, an opportunity to give up.
I sat in the luxurious chair of history and watched with interest my response to this demotion, which gave me a feeling of going through vicissitudes.
Will I give in gracefully and gratefully and return my life at the same time as if it were borrowed? Will I stand up and fight? As if you moved back from the city to the small town where you were born, before you could express surprise at the dreary life in the small town, someone urged you to remember that there are others who live here and have always lived here.
When men visit, they don’t mind these rules and regulations. However, the reason why people do not admit that it is difficult to be a mother is not only because of the prohibition of complaining: like all love, the core of this love is full of contradictions, and this pain polishes the pearl of happiness; Different from other love, there is no possibility to solve this contradiction.
Babies actually exist in my life, which is no different from travelers who need to carry large rucksacks. In the subway, people saw our awkward bodies and flustered appearance, and gave out tut – tut and sighs. Then they dispersed in a hubbub at the station, leaving my baby and I at the platform fighting with braces and garbage all over the floor.
We crashed into the table in the restaurant and knocked down the fragile items on the display shelf. We were dull and clumsy, but strangely, we were ignored. Because I am the baby’s home, I can’t leave her anywhere. Soon, I began to observe people who were walking around, relaxed, free and unaffordable, as if they belonged to another species.
Sometimes I don’t take her out of the house, and then I feel like I have no cover, like I don’t have a shell.
No matter what time, what season, or where, the baby will keep on asking. As her preference is different from that of adults, when we are free and unfettered, the boring life becomes chaotic, adding a different flavor.
She screamed uncontrollably in a quiet place, became hungry in a place where I couldn’t feed her, and excreted in a clean place: as if I had returned to some disreputable primitive state, vomited in a high-end shop, cried on the bus, while others remained indifferent and without compassion.
My daughter released unprocessed human needs in the most civilized place in the world: I was there at first – I just left recently and tried to control and suppress her, but soon, like so many mothers, I found that there were some inhuman things in civilization, some useless and deadly things. I hate its affectation and fragile cheap trinkets, its greed and its lack of pity.
I slowly became sympathetic: however, is this a temporary affection, an addition to my love for my daughter, or is it a change in nature? I really don’t know.
I was trapped in a room. This change symbolizes surrender and defeat. My daughter has become more complicated and dangerous. I respect her more and more, while others despise her more and more. The prospect of protecting her and the adult world from each other has become dim and unattractive.
I can no longer drag her around. She can climb now and has her own likes and dislikes.
She changed from a rucksack to an animal that escaped from the zoo. I have to be her trainer where there is no room for her.
I stayed at home with her longer and longer. At first, only the stairs were potentially dangerous. Later, drawers, bookcases and coffee tables were added to the list, so we forced ourselves into and trapped in a safe space: the kitchen. My daughter zigzagged through the kitchen, angry at being trapped.
It was winter and the garden was too wet and cold for her to climb there. She kept banging on the door with her fist, desperate to escape.
The floor was full of her toys, enough to drown her ankles. Like a snail’s crawling track, there are some paths outlined by unidentified materials on the wall and the surface.
The room had a layer of skin, a shell made of milk powder, and food residue became part of this shell, like some kind of eczema. The kitchen was pollinated by every substance my daughter could touch: chaos spread like natural forces.
My clothes got dirty because of these things. I found lumps in my hair and shoes. I washed, scoured and scrubbed hard, but a strong undercurrent caused by disorder seemed to control this little space with too high a temperature. Chaos was just around the corner, eroding our territory.
For us, time passed very slowly. I found myself waiting all the time, trying to meet the basic requirements of life while waiting for her days to pass – for her, it is to continue to exist in time.
In this desolate place, I am really not free: this kitchen is a small cell, a place where there is no possibility.
I have given up my membership in the world where I used to live.
Sometimes I listen to music or read books, like a beam of light from the outside, they are bright and painful, making me narrow my eyes.
When we were walking, I saw a young woman in the street. She was beautiful and carefree. At this time, I felt a sadness for some kind of lost hidden self, which made me feel anxious.
I bowed my head and saw my daughter sleeping in her cart. The shadow of her eyelashes formed an arc on her white skin. Then, a headwind of love blew towards me.
This is what I looked like for a period of time. I was blown around and bumped by this gust of wind, like a crazy and fanatical measuring instrument trying to find the direction.