My mother mothered me like I were a doll. Her own words. I was to remain quiet when adults conversed; smile in agreement when spoken to; impress everyone with a dainty and pretty appearance; dazzle bystanders with the delicate baubles in my brown hair, the frills on my frocks and sequins on my shoes. And I did. I learnt very quickly what I was not to do: Play outdoors. Get soil on said frocks. Walk barefoot without said shoes. Be impolite to women who made me feel smaller than I was. Or, be discourteous to boys and men who assailed rudimentary boundaries.
I was flawless.
The birth of my daughter heralded the end of my relationship with her father. It also brutally tore open opportunities to review why I was a habitual people-pleaser and often underwent several rounds of betrayal before I could be impolite to the betrayer. Or why I let myself be persecuted to the point of physically breaking before I could be discourteous to the persecutor. The birth of my daughter opened my eyes to one thing:
I was raised to ignore my animal instincts. I had, thus, grown accustomed to consorting with animals.
But mine is a love story with a guaranteed happily ever after. I did dig myself out of the pit before it was too late. I decided to take a good look at my surrounding habitat and decided to take inventory about the people, things and events within it. In therapy, suppressed painful memories came flooding back. I discovered I was typically very afraid of being “loud”, “ungrateful” or “aggressive”. At my core, I feared the loneliness that was threatened as a result of these traits and shied away from putting up the fight that brewed inside of me. I was reluctant to occupy space and did not walk away at opportune moments towards safety, nor did I bare my fangs, hiss and growl to stave off predators. My default wiring was such that I typically did not bite back. Even when under attack.
My pregnancy brought forth a unique animal confidence in me. I pleasantly surprised myself when I stopped fraternising with people I did not like, wordlessly exited WhatsApp groups and refused invitations without care for the consequences. So they won’t invite me again and think me a brat. Good. I made candid statements to shocked family members and relatives about my likes and dislikes; I refused to do anything that did not feel pleasant or nurturing to me and my brewing child; I said no frequently. Quickly, I began losing ‘friends’. The social invitations to swanky parties and boozy sundowners dwindled. Meanwhile, I nested in peace and quiet and enjoyed myself thoroughly. I continued obeying my inside voice. It was confident, clear and emphatic.
During my daughter’s early infancy, the external clamour disguised as ‘good-intentioned advise’ about child care to a naive new mother maddened me. For example, unsolicited caution about the ‘many dangers of co-sleeping with your baby’ and the importance relegating the babe to the cot no matter her desperate wails, was rampant and shot through the roof. I cried stop but no one listened. Instead, more links to Mayo Clinic articles on infant-rearing (on what never to do) flooded my WhatsApp. ‘Worried’ family members shot out urgent messages to each other and exchanged gossip about my diet. My doctor-approved diet, mind you. The infant cries because of what its mother eats, tch tch, echoed at the tea-time gatherings I was not invited to. The several attempts at manoeuvring my intuitive parenting were couched as ‘well-meaning’ and ‘for safety’. But my animal prevailed and I growled at any attempt to thwart my parenting style.
I continued doing what felt right: I ate deliciously buttery and meaty meals with generous servings of greens and lentils. I offered my baby body warmth while rocking her to sleep. We huddled like primates at night and slept long and deep. Before falling asleep I took long whiffs of the fuzzy head of the babe that nestled against me squirrel-like. During the day, my bug-eyed cub crawled on fours and explored her habitat - at first it was my Italian marbled 4-bedroom apartment; then we quickly progressed to grassy outdoors and sandy pits. When I breastfed, we nested in privacy. I duly grunted at any human that tried to barge in and attempt conversation as if I wasn’t engaged in the sacred ritual of nursing and bonding with my cub.
Around me, I heard endless requests by partnered mothers for pronunciation lessons, sleep coaches or good-manners tutors for their young children. On WhatsApp groups for baby-related resources, fellow mothers requested urgent solutions and advice for issues where “my kid no longer wants to go for ballet lessons I already paid for!”. The requests for ideas and suggestions on ‘child stimulation’, ‘age-appropriate children’s activities’, ‘child discipline’ and the ever-popular ‘how to keep them engaged at all times?!’ were rife and loud. I smelled fear in the air. I knew right away where those anxieties came from because I, too, had once experienced them.
There is space for all kinds of creatures in this world. And if there appears to be none at first, then I can create my own habitat.
But not anymore, and not since I returned to the jungle and accessed the deep crevices of wilderness. My origin. My roots. So, ‘milestones’, ‘manners’ or ‘reading habits’ for my young toddler held little to no significance as I adopted a radical approach to parenting. First, I set strong boundaries with relatives I did not prefer sniffing about in my territory. Beware the big cat’s den. I took my little girl outdoors regularly. I chose to remain unbothered about the brand or spotlessness of her clothing. We spent time staring at trees and giggling at bird antics. We were without purpose or educational agenda. Just us two wildlings lolling in lawns, scrapping soil or sand and picking ants. When indoors, we lazed and allowed for boredom and silliness. My daughter created playthings out of anything she saw fit. After I added two dogs to our pack, we became wilder. My apartment became an enclosure of raucous antics and mischief of two puppies and one shiny-eyed toddler. My daughter crawled around our home faux barking, growling and sparring with me like the puppies did. Often, I found myself being nipped, growled and pounced at by all three brats and together at that.
And as if I were being rewarded by the universe for my animal reversion, fierce women with fierce ideas sprung into my life and made my new habitat livelier. I met wonderful women at the farmer’s market I frequented, who introduced me to wilder parenting concepts. I learnt newer ways of living and richer ways of being, including discovering a school that mirrored identical values for nurturing children as I did in my heart. They promised no literacy till 10 years of age, and instead encouraged routine song and dance, and ample barefooted unstructured outdoor play and rest time. The school’s daily routine offered an on-site farming curriculum and scheduled soothing massages for tender-aged children and their tired bodies after wild play. They had me at ‘zero screens and punishment’. The policy-mandated response to toddler meltdowns, hitting, or biting was the educators’ meditative and loving presence with the flailing child, and humming softly till the child fully exhausted their emotive circuit. Delicious.
I began adopting similar emotionally intuitive approaches at home in parenting my growing toddler. My North Star being: How would I as a child have preferred to be parented during moments I verily believed my world was collapsing? What had I hoped would be said to me in moments I felt deeply unseen and alone? That was the key, really.
When my daughter collapses in tears or wails in desperate grief over a toy in the middle of the night or not being able to have chocolate for dinner, I show her that I understand. I mirror empathy to her heaving and shrieking little body and indicate to her she can count on me to love her even when her feelings and thoughts are big. I hug her if she will let me. Or, I wait with her till she decides it is safe to huddle with me again. Then together, we grieve the absence of chocolate for dinner. And let me tell you - the shrieking and sobbing eventually does end.
At other times, I allow myself to tease, challenge and play with her. Funny faces; Somersaults on our massive bed; Chasing and wrestling; When Mommy is Jungle Jim; Recounting all the nicknames I have for her; Grunting and snorting; Competing to see who could squeal the loudest (shrillest?); Dance parties to Vengaboys, Aqua and AC/DC. Sukhwinder Singh, too.
I regularly take my toddler along for outings and chores good, bad and ugly. For example, she is perched on my hip on our grocery-shopping jaunts to vegetable mandis (bazaars) and has a front row seat to my hard-bargaining a good deal for weekly fresh greens and fruit. She clings to my knee as I exchange pleasantries and perform dramatized shock at the wholesale flower vendors’ opening rates for bouquets of roses and lilies. She stands by my thigh and watches intently as our butcher readies our choice of live chicken with the practiced jolts of his knife and spares us cuts of feet and liver for the dogs. She holds my hand as I snake my arm through the baggie of protein to be, and we hop and skip back home together. On my weekly caffeine outings with my girlfriends, my daughter joins us to either quietly sip on her milkshake, or unquietly march on to the barista’s corner demanding an explanation for her undesirably hot cookie. I wonder if I must intervene. Should I apologise to the barista? Nope, I decide. My daughter indeed hadn’t asked for an undesirably hot cookie. The barista must address his youngest customer’s concern. So, I look away and go back sipping my hojicha latte.
Intuitive animal-parenting is not for the faint hearted. Or rather, it is not recommended for humans drawn to the facade of perfectionism. Or airtight control over children. No - traces of animal-parenting will be visible in the way formerly pristine white walls of your home become adorned with scraggy colour pencil marks and freestyle crayon scratches. It will show up in mercilessly ripped-apart books once intended to serve patient page-turning purposes during ‘quiet time’. Conspicuously, this type of parenting results in an emotionally feral and vociferous kid who will demonstrate all her feelings and thoughts to the adults in her vicinity with impressive clarity. My daughter is certain of herself and is in an environment where her mother tells her it is okay to feel I like this or that or I don’t like this or that, or I don’t know. Caked in dirt and with colourful drawings on her four limbs, my daughter is a beauty to behold. An uncombed, curious and raucous beauty. I give her the grace to tap into her instincts and do not restrain her from being ferocious or taking up space, including when it is inconvenient to me.
I once read to my utter delight that the tigress is a unique feline predator. A solitary and restful creature desirous of her space, she panders to no male. Pertinently, a single mother by choice, she nurtures her cubs ferociously in solitude. Her known social behaviours include occasional playtime with other female relatives and their cubs. I recall the trivia giving me a deep sense of peace - I can choose to be who I truly am. There is space for all kinds of creatures in this world. And if there appears to be none at first, then I can create my own habitat.
As I write this, my daughter makes it known to me she is peeved about being left sans my attention. She is boisterous, clear and direct in expressing her need and is making herself heard. Mild annoyance flickers through me, but mostly, I feel immense joy in realising that I am rearing my cub to paw and bite back. Including when that is aimed at me.
