Motherhood from where I stand: Three times I was schooled by my toddler

By Thalia Holmes

Three times I was schooled by my toddler. And by schooled I mean it in every sense of the word. Think gangsta-style “homie, you been schooled, yo” all the way to Jane Austen’s “she was well-schooled in the art of [whatever]” and everything in between. There are too many occasions to recount, so I’ve picked three times my almost-two-year old has helped me get over myself. Hint: they’re never in ways I’ve chosen.

1. That one time when she was born. 

Yes, Amelia taught me my first lesson while still in the birth canal. Here’s the background: I am one of five children, all naturally-birthed. My sister is a doula, and she, too, has birthed five children vaginally. My sister-in-law is a doula. My husband’s cousin is – wait for it! – a doula. I clearly had a support system second to none. I was reasonably fit and I have the staying power of a bulldog on a fresh steak.

My husband and I had done a pre-natal course, I had versed myself in hypnobirthing and Namasted my way through preggy yoga until the very moment the contractions started. This was going down, yo, and it was going to be good.

Except it wasn’t. Twenty-four hours into labour my contractions were three minutes apart, and lasting for at least a minute at a time. My doula was congratulating me on having “held out so long” before we went to the hospital. I fully expected to be a few short hours away from meeting my bub.

I’ll always remember the look exchanged between the doula and the midwife after they ‘checked’ me once we arrived. It was a combination of concern and disappointment.

“Well,” said the midwife, in a tone that was touchingly fake, “You’re only – I mean, you’re already two centimetres dilated.”

It went on for another 14 hours before I was told I’d need a Caesar. And there I was, naked from the waist down, throwing up on the operating table, having my bikini wax scrutinised by a group of doctors I’d never met before. When the baby came out, we had only a moment for the “skin on skin” I’d so anticipated, before she was whisked away to the oxygen machine.

And that was Amelia’s first lesson to me: that no matter how well I gear up for life, it has a way of reminding me someone else is in charge. Note to self: it’s not me.

2. That one time with the toilet. 

Fast forward nine months, and Amelia had become one of the most gregarious, busiest little critters you’ve ever met. (I swear every mother thinks that, but I’ve had it confirmed by outside sources). I walk in to the bathroom and discover her feverishly scrubbing the inside of the toilet bowl with a face cloth (yes, the yucky part; allow your worst imaginings to take flight). Before I can persuade her to desist, she whips out the dripping cloth with great alacrity and pops it into her mouth.

At that moment, I can’t decide whether to laugh or rip the cloth from her mouth and force a gallon of Mr Muscle [a brand of bathroom cleaner] down her throat to ensure she vomits. Luckily, I went with the former. I laughed til the tears ran down my face, then I let her do it three more times until I got it perfectly on camera. So I could share it with the friends whom I knew hoped wouldn’t judge me. Which apparently now includes you.

And that was Amelia's second lesson to me, adopted from the words of my sister: In motherhood, if you don't laugh, you'll cry; and nobody likes a crybaby. 

3. That one time when she did the adulting. 

This takes me back just a month or so. I’d been working some long hours, standing in for the day editor of a busy news website. Two of the biggest stories of the year had just dropped so things had gotten hectic. On top of that, my husband had been overseas for work. My daughter got sick, and then, of course, so did I.

There were two crazy nights where I stayed up all night with a sick crying baby, left for my 7am editing shift, had to perform like a demon for eight straight hours, came home, did all the “mom” stuff and then repeated the process. On the last afternoon, I arrived home shaking with fever, so sick and exhausted I felt almost delirious. I collapsed on my bed and felt so overwhelmed and relieved that I just starting sobbing.

There in that moment of dizziness, pain and overwhelm, I felt two little warm arms around my neck and a tiny nose nuzzling my cheek. Amelia pulled the dummy [pacifier] out of her mouth with a pop and began to cover me in wet sloppy kisses. “Mommy, Mommy,"  she murmured softly, stroking my hair with her chubby fingers.

And I suspected then that this was the biggest lesson I’d learned so far. That the love of a child is so honest and pure that it disregards vulnerability. Or, to quote James Baldwin: “Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without, and know we cannot live within.”

Thalia Holmes grew up in the tiny African kingdom of Swaziland and now lives in South Africa with her husband Shaun and daughter Amelia. She started her career as a black economic empowerment consultant but shifted into journalism in 2012, an industry she is passionate about. She writes and edits for one of Africa's most respected weekly newspapers from home while looking after her daughter. She absolutely cherishes the privilege of writing, but nothing beats the gift of being called mom.