“Do you think she can hear us?” I heard a voice that sounded like a ten year old girl.
“Of course, she can hear us.” A ten year old boy chuckled in a rude voice, “She can ignore us all she wants, but she can’t avoid us.”
Seated on the office desk and chair that we had setup in our bedroom, I pretentiously focused on my job, reading paper application forms for Bank Accounts and typing the data from the forms into Bank Database. It was this job that helped me monetize my time while my kids were at school. The money that could potentially enable me help my husband pay bills, the money that definitely helped me be self-reliant.
I fastened the hair-tie on my ponytail and continued to frantically type, voluntarily zoning out the voices. The more applications I digitize, the better the remuneration. If I exceeded my target, I could also treat my kids and husband with an exquisite dinner.
“Marina,” the girl called.
“Don’t even bother.” The boy interrupted her. “The Marina you’re looking for is far gone.”
I had evolved to give a cold shoulder to these voices over the past ten years . Yet, today, I was somehow following their conversation.
The voices came from the two tulips that I had hand-painted using acrylic glass paint in the left bottom corner of the mirror on the wardrobe in our bedroom, on the day we found out we were pregnant with our first child, ten years ago. Since we didn’t know the gender, I had painted them blue and pink. And, I was blessed with a son then; and our darling daughter arrived two years after.
Over the past ten years, my life has been devotedly revolving around our family. My number one job has been to ensure everyone has everything they need, from food in their lunch boxes to ironed clothes in their wardrobe and much more. It is this job that I adore the most, to provide for the people that I love the most; my loving husband and my adorable kids. And, since the kids were now nine and seven, I was able to find time when they were at school, which is why I had taken up the work-from-home data entry job.
“It’s a shame,” The boy exasperated. “Marina was a good artist.”
“She still might be,” the girl defended. “We won’t know unless she picks up the brush again. Remember all the accolades she received in her art school? And the countless exhibitions that displayed her paintings? That kind of talent never goes away.”
“That was ten years ago. She’s a mom now,” the boy interfered again. “The only time she really has is when her kids are at school. And, that’s when she needs to work.”
“But she could be a working mother who is also a painter.” The girl still argued.
“Can you, Marina?” The boy tried to poke at me.
I continued glancing through the papers and typing on the computer; tuning out the voices.
I could be a working mother who is also a painter. That thought always crosses my mind. But it is easier said than done. As therapeutic as it might be, painting is also exhausting. It would consume a lot out of me, potentially leaving me no time or energy to spend for my family, and they deserved a hundred percent of my time.
“No one deserves a hundred percent of you,” the boy rudely interrupted my train of thought. “If your husband, your kids, your work and your art are important for you, shouldn’t they all deserve your attention?”
“I agree,” the girl continued, in her calm voice. “If your art is important to you, shouldn’t you pursue it? If you don’t, wouldn’t it impact you? You’re hearing two tulips liaise with you. You may hear from other things too, overtime.”
But, there is no time. I have kids to look after.
“Ahh, the greatest argument of all times. There is never time.” The boy smirked with his rude remarks. “You have nurtured your babies into civilized, independent kids. They can’t practice that self-dependence unless you let them. They needed you all the time when they were babies. While they’ll always be your babies, they don’t need as much from you now as they once did.”
But, moms are supposed to be martyrs.
“Is that what you really want to demonstrate, Marina?” I could sense a comforting smile in the girl’s voice. “If you demonstrate martyrdom, your kids would grow up to be martyrs. But, if you demonstrate creativity, they will grow up to explore their creative side. Is that what you really want? For your kids to believe that motherhood takes away all your pleasure and that once you’re a mother, you can be nothing else?”
But, what if my kids need me?
The boy exhaled in frustration. “Unless, you enjoy being treated as a doormat for them to walk all over you when they’re bored. Shouldn’t they be old enough already to keep themselves entertained for a little while when you’re working on your passion? And, you’d still be here. The good thing about painting is that you can do it from the comfort of your home. If the house is on fire, or one of your kids has an emergency, you’d still be in the house to look after them.”
But, painting takes time and doesn’t make money.
“Art doesn’t need to make money. Don’t you have your job already?” The boy went on, but the girl shushed him.
“We won’t know until you start painting, would we?” She continued persuasion in her pacifying voice. “And, who is to say? You may be able to make money from your art, like how you’d have custom orders during your days at the University.”
She went on,”although, you need to pursue painting because you’re passionate about it, just like when you painted us. Whether it makes money could be secondary. And you don’t need to quit your job. What if you make the time for it outside your working hours? Worth a shot?”
But, I love my family too much to diminish any of my attention towards them.
The girl continued in her soothing voice, “you need to pursue your art so that you can continue to love them. If you don’t, you may grow to despise them. And, when you’re old, you may regret not having followed your passion for the sake of your family. And that would be the worst burden on you as well as them.”
And that would be the worst… I lost track of the conversation with tulips after this, or maybe I didn’t need to. The voices from tulips were right. It may not be in the best interest for any of us if I didn’t attempt to pursue my passion for painting again.
