It was a Sunday evening, and I was home alone with my children, who were 4, 6, and 8 years old. My husband had a work dinner with his colleagues and bosses who were in town that week, and he had left our house at 6 p.m.
Sunday nights tend to be the busiest and hardest nights of the week for our family. It marks the start of the school and work week, and we usually have a home-cooked meal and then prepare the children for school, which includes their uniforms, homework, and school bags.
On top of that, we, too, needed to get ourselves mentally ready for another busy week ahead.
So I braced myself for a busy and potentially stressful evening with the children, without support from my husband.
I would be managing the children by myself that night.
Starting with dinner, I prepared chicken rice and added eggs and some leftover fried chicken from our lunch at McDonald’s that day. I couldn’t cook much as we had run out of cooking gas, and had to make do with the electric pressure cooker pot.
We sat down for dinner, and the kids were their rowdy selves, energetic and chatty. They took a while to settle down, and I sat between the two youngest while my son was seated across from me.
After saying our grace, I reminded them that their father was not home that night so I needed their help to ‘behave’ and to listen to their mum.
Because they outnumbered me three to one.
In hindsight, at that point I was already a little winded from rushing dinner and getting everyone to the table to sit, I may have sounded somewhat a cross between tired and bordering on annoyance at their lack of focus on their meals.
Interestingly, they seemed to understand what I said to them.
As dinner progressed they ate relatively well and placed their dishes into the sink after their meals. Sure, there were crumbs under the table and on the seat covers, but that could wait. I was on a schedule to get them to bed on time.
I hastily ordered them to bathe and brush their teeth before bedtime, leaving the unwashed dishes in the sink and the dining area uncleaned.
My 8-year-old boy was independent enough to perform these actions himself in a separate bathroom, so I focused on my younger girls instead. I took down the shampoo and body soap to a level the girls can reach, and to my surprise, my 6-year-old voiced out that she would bathe herself, so I let her. Meanwhile, I proceeded to help my 4-year-old brush her teeth for a second time, as she insisted on doing the first time herself too.
I was about to leave my girls in the bathroom to finish up their bath to help their brother with his school bag preparation. I made it a point every Sunday to check that his books were packed correctly for the school subjects in his schedule and that his pencils and stationaries were in order.
But I found out that he had taken care of it himself.
My eldest had also packed his daycare bag as well as his school bag, and had even sharpened his pencils by himself while I was with the girls.
He then wheeled his school bag to my bedroom where I was, passed me his school schedule, showed me he had packed according to all his subjects and his homework that was due tomorrow. I checked his sharpened pencils, and his wallet for money. After I gave my approval, he wheeled the bag to the front door, and also placed his filled water bottle inside it.
As I returned to my girls I found that my 6-year-old had dried herself and had taken out her own clothes from her closet to dress herself. Sure, she didn’t use the correct pajamas, she had taken a pair of shorts and a shirt that were clearly not suitable for sleeping in, but I let it slide. I towel-dried my 4 year old and then she too then wanted follow her sister, so I let her.
Not only that, I had asked my boy to help me vacuum the dining room, and he did without complaint, he took our Tineco vacuum out, and then proceeded to vacuum the crumbs off from the floor, as best as he could.
By 9 pm they were all in my son’s room, for a short storytime and then nighttime prayers. They asked about their father and I said he would be back later. I let my son send a voice message to him as he missed his dad. Then I took the girls back to their own room, tucked them in, did a whole routine of kissing and blanket flipping for them, and then I said good night too.
As I closed their room doors, I thought to myself at how much more independent and responsible they had been that night when their mother was alone.
As I washed the dishes, cleaned the tables, and took out the trash, I felt a sense of pride and joy at how they were that night.
They were more capable and empathetic than what I usually thought them to be.
I realized then that for many years, I always thought of them as babies, young kids that depended highly on me and my husband, and they required high amounts of patience, and energy from us to keep things in order, or anything from burning down.
But I hadn’t realized that they were growing up, and are growing still.
They were not the babies I kept thinking they were, though young as they are now.
I dare say, they were becoming like companions to me now, people who I can relate to, and make jokes and have chats with.
And that made me glad, and even a little less lonely, on night when my husband may be away.
I cherished this thought of them, and I love them so much, and I prayed that they would continue growing up well.