For a girl who grew up in a household with mostly women, it’s interesting that I now should be surrounded by men. Both of them clear and unequivocal in their demands.

The little one came bouncing out of the womb with rigorous demands; to sleep at my breast and later on, as he grew older to scream tyrannically if he didn’t get what he wanted. That it is called the terrible twos but can go on up to four years…really?

In the months before he was born, I was exhausted. I contemplated where I would find the energy to push him out. I did not know how much overwhelm awaited me over the border.

I didn’t push. It turns out the system is rigged in favour of surgery. I received many stories all round, of other stronger people, silently strong, internally strong women. Stories of women who had gone to work in the morning, given birth in the afternoon and walked back home in the evening. The story tellers assumed that I had given up. And I supposed they wanted me to know that.

The days following birth, I was in agony. I had a few people by my side but not the ones I thought I would have. In between tearing at the nurses so I could throw myself off the balcony and run home in the middle of the night and worrying that I would never see my baby grow up, I had called all the phones I knew by memory but they were all switched off. All, save for one. The rest were fast asleep, oblivious to the physical pain that the spinal headache had began to transfer to my mental state. It was that night that I became, The lone warrior.

With stronger pain medication, I was able to walk. Soon after I began to walk, I found myself on my own again. One of the men went to work. He worked every day including the weekends and came home tired. The second man, cried and slept for only one and a half hours at a time. I drank a lot and breastfed. Sometimes I ate. At night I would stand in the bathroom, milk shooting out of bruised nipples, and stare at the door. I knew he was coming to get me. The piercing screams told me.

I got some visitors as is customary. Some of them came to see me, some of them came to see if what they had heard was true. To their shock and drama, behold, I was alone. A new mother. And her child. And with a clean face too.

Sometimes I fantasized about walking out the door and never looking back. Sometimes I fantasized about jumping off the balcony. The walls were closing in on me. And then I looked down and he smiled. I never forgot that smile.

Eventually I hear stories about how the baby was too big, he must be on formula. I also heard stories that I coddled him too much. I had heard some say, I had chosen the wrong hospital, and yet they had given me none to choose from.

It was then I realised that this was one of those journeys that was embarked singularly.

I knew that the opinions would always be loud. There were going to be opinions on what he looked like, at what age he did what, how we chose to bring him up. And even more, when was the next time we were having a child, it should be soon. “We” want another one.

But when push came to shove, parenting would always be your own load to carry and what a beautiful but heavy bundle it is.

There are days when I dread the morning because it means I start on a new slate every single day. A new slate for potential failure. As if everything I did the day before is gone with the wind.

Sometimes, I am running on an empty tank. I look at all the squabbles of the world and they look so small.

Sometimes I think about who was, who never was, who will always be.

The smiles and gurgles are glorious. Then it is time to change a poo poo blow up. Time to withstand a meltdown. Time to stay awake all night.

Most days, without even having enough for self, there is still more to give, much much more to give. And yet, even this, is a privilege. To be the centre of his world while losing my own equilibrium.