I’ve never liked the jealous type. Some women might feel flattered that their men cannot do without them. Not me. To me, jealous men are insecure. Of the four great Shakespearean tragedies, I had the least affinity with ‘Othello’. I cried buckets while reading ‘King Lear’ and felt my heart break too when he held his dead daughter, Cordelia, in his arms crying, ‘Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, /And thou no breath at all?’
I could identify with Hamlet, caught up in his family problems and battling existential questions. I emphathised with Macbeth’s guilt and greed, and took it as a cautionary tale to never let my ambition get to my head. But Othello’s tragedy due to his jealousy and suspicious mind was simply idiotic.
With Caleb, it was his eyes that first melted my heart. They were deep and dreamy. When you look into those eyes, you forgot everything around you. Time and clouds stood still. He had the sunniest smile and the most affectionate hug. Our early days together were heaven. We always had fun hanging out with each other but he also knew how to have a great time with other friends and family.
Eighteen months into our relationship, the tell-tale signs stated to show. He started to get anxious when he couldn’t see me. Suddenly, he wasn’t interested in other people around him anymore except me. When I gave others more attention than to him, he would turn into the green-eyed monster and get into a jealous fit.
My dear Caleb had turned into THE CLINGY BOYFRIEND! My first instinct was to run and hide. Yet how could I run from the little being, who also happened to be my son?
No matter where we were—at home, in the sandpit, or on a play date—I was the sun. Caleb was a planet, revolving no further than a 2-meter radius around me. If I strayed off a little further, he was the metal detector, sweeping the ground, waiting for the ‘bleep bleep bleep’ signal of locating his Mummy. On the few occasions I was cruel enough to leave him with his Daddy, he was an emotional wreck. He would sob and whine throughout the time I was away. If I were out in the evening, he wouldn’t sleep and would mop around the doorway awaiting my return. Nothing could console him.
In the day, Daddy couldn’t feed him. Daddy couldn’t dress him. His big sister couldn’t shower him. Only Mummy could do anything and everything for him. I wondered if my husband felt hurt by Caleb’s rejection. Yet, I felt sorrier for myself for turning unwittingly into Caleb’s slave. I didn’t understand why he felt so insecure without me around.
Psychologists would advise patience, describing separation anxiety as a period that would pass. Moreover, a loving approach rather than a cold turkey one would help a child build up his sense of security better. So during that time, I hugged Caleb a lot, and said ‘I love you’ to him several times a day to build up his emotional bank account.
He followed me practically everywhere, like a Koala, since he liked being carried. He was at his most comfortable in the arms of his Mummy, preferring to do all his feeding, pooping and sleeping in the arms-formed pouch. But it was not always possible to stay in my pouch! When domestic duties beckon, he had to settle for hanging onto my leg when I vacuumed the floor or holding my left hand while I cooked with my right.
My showers became hasty affairs since Caleb would be pounding at the door, blubbering to be let in, if he realised that I was not in the same room as him. Either that, or I succumbed and he joined me in the showers and played in the bathtub. At night, Caleb held on tightly to me, one hand clasping mine, the other around my neck, before he could sleep. My poor husband was resigned to having a little man between us.
Night Terrors
Despite all my affection, Caleb’s insecurity still bordered on the mad extreme. The night terrors that year were traumatic. Somehow, Caleb would wake up in the middle of the night, sobbing uncontrollably. The first time it happened, I was completely taken aback and didn’t know what to do. He burst into tears, as if awoken from a nightmare. He started twisting and squirming his body like a snake being attacked. Speaking to him soothingly, I tried to calm him down but it was as if he was sleepwalking. His eyes stared ahead blankly, his ears not hearing anything I said to him.
Even as he resisted and struggled, I held on tightly to him, telling him ‘it’s ok, Mummy is here’ constantly. These night wakings happened several times a week, and the crying could last up to an hour, with him howling for Mummy even though I was next to him. The strange thing was, Caleb had no recollection of his night wakings the next day. There were no remnants of the shadows and fears that plagued his sleep. He was his usual, happy self in the daytime. For that, I was grateful.
Caleb was so loud at night that a concerned neighbour below our unit once called us up to find out what was wrong. He had heard the blood curdling cries. Being a light sleeper, my husband eventually self-banished himself to the adjacent room to get some proper sleep. Plus, it was impossible to predict when my jealous boyfriend would suddenly kick or elbow him in the night.
Once, Caleb slipped out of the bedroom and tried to unlock the main door to leave the apartment. Perhaps my Mummy antenna had sharpened over time, for when it happened, my eyes simply flashed open from sensing that Caleb has left the bed. Bolting out of the bedroom, I called out, ‘Caleb! Where are you going!’ He was caught, fumbling with the door lock. When he heard my voice, he started whimpering, sprawling flat on the floor. I carried him gently to the sofa and held him close to me for a long while…
After that harrowing experience, my daily goodnight prayer to God took on a pleading intensity. I prayed fervently that God’s angels would protect Caleb; peace would be in his sleep. I prayed that Caleb would not sleep walk. It took a whole year before those night terrors diminished in frequency, and two years before I could get Caleb to sleep in his own bed.
Two Years On…
To mothers out there reading this, it will be tough for a while, but separation anxiety will pass. Caleb will turn four in a few months. The koala is now more like a puppy. No longer does he demand to be carried around. He is able to wander off by himself a little further, dig in the sand, sniff the space around him, sometimes marking his territory. He likes romping about and wrestling with his friends. He can finally play by himself, or laze in a corner with a book without expecting his Mummy near him. He still likes to snuggle close to me though. When he is sad or scared, his first instinct is still to shout, “I want Muuuummyyy!” then to run back into my arms.
Looking at my little man, I can’t help but feel proud of his progress. I see him taking steps towards independence. I see him learning to socialize and doing things himself. I know that soon enough, he won’t need me anymore. Ironically, this thought makes me a little sad. Even though the two years of Mummyhood slavery was tough, letting go of my son is even tougher.
I pen this down to remember this romantic period. Twenty years from now, when my son becomes a grown man too embarrassed to hug or kiss his mother, it would be nice to recount how he used to be inseparable from me. When my son is a grown man whose friends and work become more important than his mother, it would be nice to reminisce how I used to be his sun, his moon, and stars. When my son is a grown man who finds the love of his life, it would be nice to relish the fact that I was his first love.
I hope my son grows up to be a romantic man—the kind of man who sends flowers, hugs and kisses; the kind of man who loves boldly and gets hurt bravely; the kind of man who would cross the desert to pursue love and wait years out patiently for love to bear fruit.
I should add, lastly, that I hope my son grows up continuing to love his mother. That’s the most romantic kind of man, don’t you think?
(First posted in April 2018)