My own mother inspires me,

on what i do not want to choose as my motherhood path

I used to practice my acting

I used to...

I used to practice my roles - my lines, my emotions, my texts, my acting - randomly, during the day, just to check how my heart and my tears were still connected, my imagination and my smile still in tune.

"It is useful", I used to think, for this was the nature of my work.

I was wrong.

I am not an actress anymore, and it IS useful, it still is, for this is the nature of my LIVING.

Today I repeated (still know it by heart) a text I performed 10 years ago (10 years!) and I felt all the emotions, the changes, the nuances, the fragile excitement, the deep suffering (yes, it was a tragic play), and I cried, and I lived again that woman's life, in Lebanon, in the post war. Can't remember her name... but she came to visit me today, how unexpected! How magically unexpected.

Grateful for my life and all it's richness. 

Grateful.

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 can'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;

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, your doing great";

The one that compliments "well done", 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 help;

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 his 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 fresh fruits 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.