Late into the night, when not a leaf ruffled, nor a human strolled, I lay awake, body stiff, mind buzzing. The white noise whooshed in a loop, its dim light casting shadows onto the dark ceiling. I waited. For the first ruffle… For a little sniffle… For the sharp cry.
And a revelation dawned…
I was playing in a little orchestra.
A single tap here, a double pat there, humming now, singing then, strumming along to the tune of motherhood… My own version of a little orchestra, with me being the solo musician, and the silence, my audience!
It was one of those rare, challenging times, when Rahul was travelling and I had to manage both the kids during the night. The little one woke with a cry, and I jumped out to soothe her before she woke her elder sibling. Then the elder one decided to toss and turn, sat up and called out. And so, it went on… An hour ticked by, then another… then another… Almost half the night crawled by, while I dozed on and off, in between the playing…
Why did I think of an orchestra?
Strange as it may seem and totally incongruous, there is a link.
Just as one imagines an orchestra’s harmonious melody, as each type of sound flows into the other, not overriding, but melding into a synchronized piece, similarly, both children tagged their sleep and wakings. They planned it so well, almost as if both Miki and Riki had discussed it earlier. They offered Mumma a few minutes, a few hours of rest in between, while keeping to their routines of waking, moving, settling, going back to sleep, just as if no other child was in the room.
If this was not astonishing enough, Riki managed to outsmart Mumma too. When she refused to stay asleep in the cot, I rocked her in my arms and laid her down at the bottom of the bed, just below Miki, so that she would not inadvertently be hurt by us. But no! She refused to stay there. Still asleep, she crawled up, pushing her head against the mattress. Wiggling, she found a crack in between Miki and me, and settled against me. I could not budge her. Nor could I reach Miki.
The elder sibling opened his eyes, looked at Riki, looked at Mumma (who was starting to panic that soon there would be a big meltdown), turned to the other side and closed his eyes. He didn’t cry, just called out ‘Mumma’ once, tossed and turned until he fell asleep around 3 am in the morning.
That is the beauty of motherhood – to expect the unexpected.
What I had imagined to be a very difficult night with several bursts of crying, tugging and frustration, turned out to be so different.
Less difficult. Less frustrating. More surprising. More revelations.
Less self-doubt. More overwhelming love for the little ones who stood by their mother without even knowing how to.
The Little Orchestra of Motherhood brings about so much happiness, especially hidden in these moments of strife, that it reminds us, tired moms, how lucky we are!
The tune plays on, the sleepless nights wear on, tiny hands clutch the older worn ones, the warmth grows, the love envelops our hearts and holds them snug.
Thank you Miki and Riki, for being Mumma’s little Star and Moon, and her cornerstones!
Footprints on the Mind 
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