Month: December 2022

I hope Tov remembers me

Published on by Sophia LeeLeave a comment

It’s Day 10 of my trip to Ukraine. Day 10 away from Tov. It’s the longest I’ve been away from him.

Every day has been busy. My mind has been busy. The stories I hear, the sights I see, the faces I’ve come to know– all of those things have kept my mind and heart full. And still– even in my busiest moments, with all that’s happening, with the constant booms of Russian artillery in the near distance, with my fingers as cold and stiff as frozen french fries, there was always a tugging on my heart.

One night, I had a terrible dream. I dreamed that I returned home from my trip, and I acted like I would normally do before I became a mother: I threw off my shoes, puttered around the kitchen, went grocery shopping for snacks, took a nice nap, made some milky coffee, read some books…and then I jolted upright with a start: “Oh shoot! Where’s Tov?” It was like my brain, in the subterranean dreamworld, so accustomed to 34 years of childlessness, had forgotten I had a son.

I remember in my dream running to Tov’s room. I found him lying alone on his crib, busy kicking his feet as he always does. “Hi Tov!” I exclaimed, reaching for him. “Omma’s back! I missed you!” All the while, I felt massive guilt for forgetting he even existed.

In my dream I picked him up and held him. I missed him and longed for him even as I held him. My new motherhood sentiments flooded in like a tsunami. I kissed and cuddled him. And then I looked at his eyes, and his big eyes looked up at me without recognition. My son stared at my face with interest, as though meeting me for the first time. He looked at me like he looked at a stranger, and at that moment I realized, with a dark, sinking feeling, He does not know me.

Oh Tov! Oh Tov, I am sorry. I am so sorry. I wept and wept and wept with inexpressible disappointment and sorrow. My heart felt hollow and rank, like a hole sinking into the deepest, dankest sewage tunnel. I cried so much I woke myself awake, and was surprised that I hadn’t drenched my pillow with real tears.

I awoke still feeling that sorrow that my seven-month-old son has forgotten his mother. And even now as I write this, my eyes sting with tears. It is strange, this feeling. Before I left for Ukraine, my abba told me to hurry back, because my son needs me. But my son seems fine. He has David, and my mother, and our nanny taking care of his every need. So it feels like rather than my son needing me, I’m the one who needs him.

Tov, if you ever one day read this, I hope you understand this heart. When I fail you, when I lose my temper with you, when I vex you, I hope you remember my heart. I don’t know what kind of mother I’ll be, but know that when I became a mother, I gained love as I’ve never had before, fears as I’ve never experienced before, and sorrows that I’ve never felt before. I will never be perfect for you. And you will never fully understand me, as all children never fully understand their parents.

But I hope you’ll at least understand that my heart is for you. That you have changed my world, and that that world belongs to you even when I’m halfway across the world. As it should be. Because that’s how God created it. He created a parent’s heart to reflect His heart for us. And if you don’t understand my heart, I hope you’ll at least understand His, this desire to be known by you.

Dear Tov. I’ll be back soon. Because this omma needs you.

First international work trip as a mother

Published on by Sophia Lee3 Comments

I am currently in Warsaw, Poland, at a hotel as I type this. I had planned to wake up at 7 am so I can take advantage of their superb free breakfast, but I was so zonked out that I slept almost 10 hours and woke up right as the hotel breakfast time ended. It was the first time I got to sleep more than six hours straight since Tov was born.

I was in this same exact hotel nine months ago. It feels like a lifetime ago. How different life is now. How different I am now.

Nine months ago, I was six months pregnant. I woke up multiple times during the night because I either had to shuffle to the bathroom or had to shift positions due to a bulging belly. Last night, I woke up several times throughout the night not just because of physical discomfort (oh, the joys of breastfeeding), but because my subconsciousness woke me up to check the baby camera app, just to make sure Tov is sleeping through the night. I wasn’t worried about Tov. I was more worried that David would get no sleep.

He got no sleep. The baby cam app alerted me that Tov was crying in his crib at 2 in the morning. I watched as David lumbered into Tov’s room and stuck the pacifier into his mouth. An hour later, Tov wailed again. Again, the pacifier. Then he cried again. And again.

Poor David. Poor Tov.

There are times when I miss being a single, independent woman, because then, I was free of such relations, in which I am beholden to others and others are beholden to me. I could go on a two-month work trip without worrying about inconveniencing anyone except myself.

This time round, on my first international work trip since I became a mother, my travels affect not just me but my husband, my almost 7-month-old baby, my mother– who flew to LA to help take care of Tov– and my father, who lost his companion. I have new worries now: I have to make sure I keep my milk supply up while on long flights and train rides and drives; I have to hurry back home as soon as possible so I’m not gone too long from the family; I wonder how my long absence will affect Tov’s stability and happiness.

And also, how I miss that babe. On the plane, a couple in front of me had a baby about Tov’s age. Pre-Tov me would have inwardly groaned, dreading being stuck on a long flight with a crying baby. Post-Tov me smiled at the little round head of this baby and longed to stroke the back of Tov’s head. In Warsaw, as I walked the streets, all I saw were babies– babies sleeping on strollers, babies in their parents’ arms, toddlers wobbling on little feet– and each time, I missed Tov. I missed his stubborn tuft of hair. I missed his sweet milky scent. I missed his tiny fingers wrapped around my thumb. I missed his smiles and yawns and giggles and coos. Heck, I even missed his screams and cries.

The day I left the country, I wanted both David and Tov to drop me off at the Dulles airport, though my parents offered to watch Tov. I wanted to be with Tov till the last minute. He fell asleep while we drove to the airport, with his fingers clutching my finger. At the airport, I tried to say goodbye to Tov, but he had his eyes firmly closed, his mouth busy sucking at a pacifier.

“Tov, Tov. Open your eyes. Look at omma. Tov,” I begged, but he let out a cry of protest, eyes still closed. I kissed his head, kissed David goodbye, and walked into the airport with my luggage, heart full of thoughts and emotions.

This is my first time entering a country at war. Every news coming out of Ukraine was no good: Russian missiles are striking cities and villages, pummeling Ukraine’s energy infrastructure. Last week, even Kyiv lost power for days, and millions in Ukraine still don’t have electricity or running water. Meanwhile, the weather is below freezing, and nighttime falls by 4 pm. I am most certainly going to freeze my ass off. I’m not even sure how I’ll get out of the country once I figure out my return date.

Of course, I didn’t have to go to Ukraine. But I am. Because pre-Tov me would have. Because there’s a war going on in Ukraine, and there are stories there that I want to cover. Because even as a new mother, I don’t want to lose certain parts of me, though I suppose that’s a very modern, individualistic sort of mindset that would be foreign to non-western women a hundred years ago.

But I did lose some things. I’ve lost hours of productivity at work that I now give to a very needy human being. I’ve lost the ability to be spontaneous and carefree. I’ve lost the liberated sense of being a rootless nomad, where home is where I hang my hat. I’ve lost the freedom of being able to travel without something tugging at my heart.

And you know, I am fine with it. Because that tugging of my heart means somebody is waiting for me. That I have a home now. That I now have a family– people who are beholden to me, and I to them; people who miss me, and I them. I miss, because I have. And for that, I am grateful.