In the process of educating myself on race, I slowly became conscious of the fact that I would need to tackle the subject head on with my children if I wanted them to be confident and proud of who they are. Being mixed race is a point of strength, biologically speaking, and I wanted it to be so in their hearts and minds too. I didn’t want race to be an incidental factor in their lives, semi-ignored and barely mentioned, until such time as it is highlighted by others from outside the home - be it positively or negatively, superficially or more profoundly. While I value the magic and innocence of childhood, I think it is equally important to encourage children to talk about the things they see around them (including themselves), with truthfulness and respect.
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Learning about race (prompted in no small way by having mixed race daughters myself) has become a passion of mine. Shamefully, I have come to the subject very late and am having to do a lot of unlearning. By unlearning I mean such things as questioning previously accepted assumptions, and trying to see history and reality from another angle to the one I was raised with in the UK. It started with meeting my husband who, while born and raised in France, is originally from Ivory Coast. Becoming part of his family and simply having more conversations about race - the interesting parts, the uncomfortable parts - really opened my eyes. And I realised what a responsibility I had, as a white mother, to be informed and proactive. The colour of my daughters' skin is not an aesthetic; it is something that will shape their lives, and something that has been devalued and made into a disadvantage throughout history’s white narrative. Phew, it’s been a while! Not only since updating my blog, but since writing at all or even mentally preparing to write. For a couple of months I was operating in what felt like ‘emergency mode’: fuelled on adrenaline (not all bad, but adrenaline nonetheless), swamped by must-do practical duties, trying to squeeze back into the UK system after three years in Malta (not as easy as you’d imagine, on any level) and exerting most of my effort to simply hold it together with a lot of uncertainty and two preschool children. It’s like when you’ve hurt your back and are having to manoeuvre yourself cautiously so as to not aggravate it, only mentally. I felt like I had to tiptoe around my own self, trying to avoid thoughts and situations that might trigger further stress, as if they were actual twinges of pain. But of course, this is tiring and unsustainable in itself. And so the whole move abroad was a far bigger transition than expected: a physical relocation as well as a massive test to my inner equilibrium. I had thought it would be a return to familiarity, but really it was the start of something unrecognisably new. I should have predicted that really.
We’re all familiar with the scene that’s become somewhat of a cliché: a person taking a picture of their food, a famous site, or themselves without seeming to appreciate the moment or their loved ones around them (children included). There is a drawing that shows a man drowning in the sea, and dozens of spectators holding out their phones to film him rather than help; this tendency in modern times has been exaggerated for comedy’s sake, but it persists and resonates because we know it is sort of true. Phones are whipped out to capture every moment - but truly for what? To remember? To share? To document? Because everyone else is doing the same? Whatever the reason, it seems that we are constantly leaving the enjoyment of the present experience, in pursuit of something else. On a Sunday a few weeks ago, I had some free time. With two small children and a busy weekly routine, free time is not something I feel I often have. But it came and curled up on my lap like a purring cat and - truthfully - I almost felt uncomfortable with the prospect. It can take a lot of ‘unlearning’ to really relax and do things that have no immediate outcome or purpose. So, I decided to take my youngest daughter for a walk - a walk at a leisurely pace, with no fixed destination. I have a three year old. An exuberant, charismatic, chatty three year old who is wondrously curious about everything. But not long ago, I had a tiny newborn in my arms and I was learning all about motherhood for the first time. Not long ago, conversations pivoted around questions like ‘how old is she?’, ‘how is she sleeping?’, and ‘are you breastfeeding?’. General appreciative compliments abounded, and support was extensive when it came to physical matters like weighing your baby or consulting lactation experts or starting on solids. In a couple of years, questions will no doubt be posed at my daughter directly - ‘how old are you?’, ‘do you like school?’, ‘what’s your favourite subject?’. But for now, I have a three year old. Which means a few things. I am experiencing the indeterminate, ‘in between’ phase of early childhood, when my daughter is no longer a toddler, but is not yet in school. People tend to compliment her on what she looks like or what she’s wearing rather than have conversations with her (because she is three, maybe, there is not much expectation of her ability to converse). Motherhood is more ‘new’ feeling and intense and demanding than ever before, but there is much less conversation about it - and much less interest in me and my child overall (I don’t mean this melodramatically; simply that we, as a duo, are not novelties anymore). I may still be dealing with ‘toddler matters’ like weening and potty training, but suddenly these are not such acceptable topics to be discussing openly in the way I could before. Even between friends, questions around challenges are often shared in lowered tones, tinged with shame or guilt - ‘is your little one having a lot of tantrums too?’, ‘is she still wearing a nappy at night?’. And speaking of questions - they are rarely asked by others at all in this phase; there is simply a calm assumption that I am not ‘new at this’ anymore and that I must now know what I am doing. The smell of Malta after a hot summer’s day, when the light is soft and pink, the air is still, and the buildings rise up like luminous sand castles left behind at the beach, is distinctly special. For a brief time, it makes you forget the hot, challenging hours that went before it. It is the lover’s gift after feuds and tears; the smell of contentment, of peace. I start to remember myself again - my aspirations and purpose. I realise I have been lost in survival mode. What a power is heat to oppress the senses and mind! Here in this mellow respite I can breathe in the memories of the day and notice things again. Isn’t it a wonderful feeling when your mind expands and understands something new? Or when you gain a fresh perspective, or feel inspired by a different way of thinking? I’m starting to realise that this all-important stimulation of the intellect - and heart - is highly undervalued, but absolutely critical, for mothers of young children. It is so easy to become overtaken by practical duties and emotional reactions, and subtly, your identity is reduced to what you are doing or feeling in the moment. But we are so much more than that - and remembering the potential of life is, surely, essential to developing it. This is my humble sequel to ‘A Perfectly-Far-From-Perfect Birth Story’ - a piece I wrote two years ago after my first child was born - and is rather more a collection of postnatal reflections than a birth story per se. Narratives have their place, but sometimes it is the thoughts that come afterwards that are most helpful to the mind and heart. To start with, as I tap away with my baby girl clamped to my front like a koala, I have been struggling to find the right adjectives for this birth. ‘Beautiful’ is used liberally nowadays, it seems, for anything raw, truthful, impressive - even when not aesthetically pleasing to the senses or mind. So maybe I can use ‘beautiful’. A few others that spring to mind but also don’t quite fit are ‘surreal’, ‘poignant’, ‘clinical’, and - dare I admit it - ‘traumatic’. This birth was certainly intense, but I must be honest to both myself and others in admitting that the circumstances were spectacularly undesirable. Pregnancy with my second child has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It’s all relative, of course, and some may read this and wonder at how easy life must have been for me if this was hard. Some others may automatically want to remind me that this is ‘nothing’ compared to having two small children, or having three or four or five. But the fact is, it has been extremely challenging for me, and I’m sure in no small part due to having moved countries immediately before and to experiencing pregnancy through the hottest months of a Mediterranean summer. I have a lot more awareness now of respecting each person’s journey with motherhood, and not trying to compare or rank levels of intensity. For some, one child pushes them to their ‘full capacity’; for others, having ten or more children isn’t massively stressful. The thing is, we don’t need to remind each other that someone else has it harder or that your own situation is very ‘doable’ - we each have our own strengths and limitations. Motherhood will simply bear it’s own unique fruit for each person.
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