Editor’s Note:
This personal reflection was originally written in 2002 by Priscilla McDonald. It is republished here as part of the Living in Indonesia Stories collection. Minor edits have been made for grammar and readability while preserving the author’s original voice and message.
His name is Calvin. He’s three and a half years old, has an Indonesian mom, an American dad, and one little baby brother. He’s the boy who clutters the entire house with his three hundred-odd Hot Wheels cars, jumps on newly polished Chesterfield leather furniture, and drags our poor Golden Retriever around the backyard by his tail. The wrestling practice with Dad has also proven useful when dealing with the occasional bully at school, regardless of their size.
There are days when he makes us laugh out loud with his wonderful conclusions, like “Splendid means you are very good at climbing,” or “Hawaii is where the Eskimo people live,” or when he runs around the house shouting, “My underwear is in a bunch!”
But he’s also the little boy who never forgets to give me at least four hugs a day, and who makes me cry every Mother’s Day when he sings You Are My Sunshine.
I can’t remember how many “I love yous” have come from those tiny lips. He has changed my life forever with the spring in his step and the sparkle in his eyes.
His name is Connor. He’s four months old.
Born ten weeks early, he made me realize that miracles really do exist. From the moment I saw his tiny 2 lb. 15 oz. body, deep in my heart I somehow knew he was my little champion. Never once did he give up.
When everything seemed to be going wrong and hospital visits became bedside vigils, the expression on his face always seemed to say, “I’m alright, Mom. I’ll make it.”
He was right.
Today he’s a healthy 13-pound baby, as plump and cheerful as can be. Soon he’ll no doubt be joining forces with his brother to work out how to blow the roof off our house.
They are my sons, and we have loved them from the moment they entered this world.
Her name is Nita.
I met her a couple of years ago at my husband’s company Halloween party. One of my husband’s colleagues had brought her along as his “this-week-only” girlfriend.
Although she couldn’t have been much older than twenty, she already looked tired beyond her years. I searched for some sign of youthful enthusiasm but couldn’t find it.
During our conversation she said,
“I earn my living by giving my services to bule. I don’t care how old they are or who they are, as long as they bring me enough money to afford nice things. I got knocked up once. My son is eight months old now and lives with my parents in the kampung.”
“Do you think you’ll bring him home one day?” I asked.
“Hell no! I never wanted a child anyway. I only kept the baby because my friends said he’d be beautiful since he’s of mixed blood. How foolish I was to listen.”
I shivered.
I couldn’t understand how a mother could deny her own child. I had always believed mothers fell in love with their babies the first time they looked into their eyes.
Perhaps I was wrong.
I found myself wondering how many Nitas are out there.
His name is Mark.
A successful businessman in his early fifties, he lives in Jakarta while his wife of twenty years and their two teenage children remain in the United States. His wife chose to continue her legal career there.
Three months earlier he had met a bargirl at Tanamur, and now he was thinking about marrying her.
When I asked why, he simply replied,
“I’m a man. My family visits every six months, but I need more than a platonic relationship.”
“But what about your children?” I asked.
“They’re old enough to take care of themselves. I can afford child support and alimony, and my wife earns a good income. They’ll be fine.”
I could only stare at him.
I wanted to tell him to dig up the good memories. To remember when his children needed him more than anyone else in the world. To think beyond the teenagers with rolling eyes and shrugged shoulders, and instead remember the little children who once ran into his arms.
To remember the joy of watching them grow.
And to realise that we do not inherit this world from our parents; we borrow it from our children.
I found myself wondering how many Marks are out there.
I’m far from being a perfect parent.
But if I have one wish, it’s simply this: that God continues to help me become a better mother, and that I never take for granted the precious years I have with my children.
© Priscilla McDonald
Originally written in Seattle, August 2002
