A mother's obsession

To say that Mum has Sonny continually on her mind is to greatly understate things.

Most obviously, her days are pretty much taken up with feeding him, caring for him or worrying about some aspect of either activity. But in fact, all our eight-week-old son has to do is to start to cry for Mum to suffer an attack of colic. A wail at the wrong time can remotely trigger spurting milk.

So tight is the physiological and psychological bond, it doesn't relax even when Mum's asleep: The other night, she dreamt again about Sonny (not the first such instance, for anyone who recalls an earlier post). Before her eyes, he was sucked down into suddenly-appearing quicksand. Things morphed into a full-scale disaster movie scenario, with rooms upon rooms of survivors through which Mum combed desperately - before finally catching sight of his Winnie the Pooh pajamas.

It has been rather a shock, experiencing how motherly attachment to one's offspring can take such a powerful hold so early on. And, of course, it can only deepen with time and shared experience. Suddenly, tired cliches seem to quicken with pulsing credibility. Like the one about how some mothers never cease to worry about the silliest aspects of their grown-up children's welfare. Or about how a child's decisions, or apparent ingratitude, can strike like blows to the heart.

Aren't we getting ahead of ourselves, you might ask? Best to focus on the nitty-gritty, and take the joys (and frustrations) of each day as they come. Well, it's not that Mum doesn't try. It's just that there are forces at work here that far transcend any easily-mastered want or urge. Still, she expects, with time, to at least become more used to the notion of being a mother.

For now, she'll settle for some way to stem her colic.