Boundless Entries

Oh, to be a mother during wartime.
And to be a working mom during wartime.

When schools have no schedules, no routines.
When you wish you had enough hands to cover the ears of every single child. All of them.

When being somewhere relatively safe, for now, doesn’t shield you from a four-year-old’s question:
“Will I die?”

How do you explain death?
Or the sounds you constantly lie about. Fireworks, a huge celebration, a wedding, a birthday. Until you run out of occasions they are already starting to hate.

Because your lies backfire.
Celebrations aren’t meant to be scary.
Parents don’t shake when they are happy.

Oh, to be a mom during wartime.
When you are in a place that is not your place, just so they don’t hear, see, or feel.

When they miss their rooms, but you remind yourself that many other children have lost everything.
And you hold on to that thought.
It could be anyone. A coincidence of birth.

“Is my house broken like the photos?”

And you don’t even know where they saw the photos.
Or what they’ve seen.
You can’t keep track of what they know and what they don’t yet.

And you overreact, trying to console them,
knowing that many other children have indeed seen their broken homes.

No one pays the price like children.
In any war. 

Oh, to be a working mom, too.
Finding some comfort in giving people a moment of warmth,
while guilt eats you up because you haven’t truly seen your own children in days.

Looking into other children’s eyes and feeling the pain.
The intrusive thoughts. What if?
What would I do in this mother’s shoes?

But mothers are built differently.

Strong in the toughest moments
in the peak of a blast, in the height of a deafening sound.

And yet so fragile in moments of calm.
When they finally allow themselves to fall apart, slowly,
just enough to release.
Not enough for the children to notice.

Mothers who think on the spot.
Quick on their feet.

Documents.
The favourite teddy bear.
A blanket.
The work laptop.

My partner’s hand.

Because partners are everything in those moments.
A quiet acknowledgment: we are in this together.
A team.
The children come first. Now, and every second until this is over.

A silent renewal of vows.
Through good times and bad.
But never imagining the bad would be war.

The warmth of a mother with the coldest hands.
A tight hug from a shaking body.
A soft hum from a chaotic mind.

Oh, to be a mother during wartime.