This is not going to be an ‘elegant’ entry.
I woke up last night by a sharp pain in my belly. Half asleep, it took me a while to fully comprehend what’s it’s about. It must have been the over-oily pumkin soup which stood overnight on the kitchen counter, then added a bit too much cream, and I ate a lot of it for dinner.
The pain was nauseating, yet i knew the damn soup has travelled too far to be vomited out. So, while sitting fatigued and suffering and waiting to be rid of the soup, i observed how my brain produced its own morphine to help ease the pain: my mum.
It came naturally what she’s say were she here: how pity she feels for me, how poor child i was to suffer from this pain, she’d pat my hair, or do something gently to make me see how much she cares and that she’s there for me. And all that dreamy fantasy did help me feel better.
When i searched back into the misty beginning of my memory, the very first impression of life was that if i had pain, or discomfort somewhere, if only i have mum, then everything will be ok. She’d change for me, nurse me, cuddle me, care for me, do anything to comfort me. My brain, tens of years later, when I as a grown-up, recreates the images that associated with releaving the discomfort and uses those loving fantasy as the physical pain-killer. No surprise that for many adults, in moments of deep suffering or horror, instinctively we call out for mum, just because this word alone has the power to soothe our pain.
There’s always a baby inside us, no matter how old we are, who will never grow up, never wean, never stop needing love from mum.
So love and attend your baby, so that your child will carry with itself the morphine of love, for life.