Friday, April 10, 2015

The mothers at the playground

Everyday I walk to the playground and I see them, the mothers.

Everyday I see the mother that comes and sits with her smartphone on her hand, blind and deaf to all her child's excitements: "mummy look at me! Mummy come!";

Everyday I see the mother that fears the dirty floor and the clumsy toddlers;
The one that runs to her baby when he falls down;
The one that just says "it's ok, you can get up by yourself";
The one that smiles to his happiness;
The one that cannot hear his screaming;
The one that sips coffee and doesn't put the cup down to help her daughter to the swing;
The one that plays with her son non-stop on the slide too narrow for her hip; on the seesaw, too fragile for her weight;
The one that takes her shoes off and runs with them in the grass;
The one that wants to sit, alone with her thoughts;
The one that gets emotional with her child's cry;
The one that smiles to the sound of the laughter;
The one with the stained t-shirt;
The one with the trendy shoes;
The one born and raised here, and the visitor, the emigrant, the expat, the tourist...
The one that looks for flowers; 
The one that collects seeds;
The one that is in a hurry and the one that has all day;
The one that looks around embarrassed when her baby throws up; 
The one that lies on the floor next to her toddler when he goes tantrum;
The one that breastfeeds;
The one that carries purees and sliced fruit; 
The one that looses her patience and drags her kid out of the playground;
The child whisper calming them all with her magic;
The diplomat mom during a meltdown;
The fearless one under criticism;
The one on the non-ending phone call;
The one chatting with her friends;
The one running after her toddler;
The one letting them be;
The one telling them off;
The one encouraging him to climb higher, to run faster;
The one criticizing him for being so careless;
The one asking her to be quiet, to speak lower, to behave;
The one comparing heights and milestones "how old is she?";
The one embracing her child's uniqueness "it's ok, you'r doing great";
The one that compliments "well done" and the one that enquires "how do you feel about it?";

The one that takes advantage and sits on the grass to meditate;
The one that can't help looking at her watch;
The one that sings happily;
The one that seams to grind her teeth;
The one who went to the hairdresser;
The one always with a messy bun;
The stroller addict;
The babywearing fan;
The new mom with a small baby enjoying the sun;
The mother of three, blowing me away managing it all;
The one sharing play time with the husband;
The one with the helper, the babysitter, the nanny to support her;
The one followed by the whole family, the granny eager to help, the athletic uncle doing push-ups, the noisy cousins running around;
The one clapping to her son's strong kick;
The one offering water;
The one saying "you had enough food already";
The one protecting him from the cold with an extra jacket;
The one carrying his hat;
The one smelling her son's bottom;
The one kissing her daughter's hair;
The one insisting "share, you can play together";
The one asking "don't touch it, it is not yours";
The one letting him eat that food that he dropped on the floor;
The one wiping his hands so often;
The one carrying grapes and organic yogurt and the one that just bought a chocolate at the vending machine...

Everyday I walk to the playground, and I see them, the mothers.
Me? I do not judge.
Me? I am all of them. All of them in one.


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