Made By AI - ChatGPT
There are days when I hand over the shift. Not because I am tired of being a mother but because I am tired in the way only mothers understand.
On those days, I let my husband “nurse” the children. He does not nurse the way I do. He nurses with distance. With confidence. With air.
He lets them run outside with their friends while he watches from far away not hovering, not panicking, just leaning slightly forward like a referee who trusts the game.
Meanwhile, I am inside rehearsing disasters that have not happened.
I am the mother who prefers all children inside our house, where I can count heads like inventory. He is the father who believes scraped knees are part of childhood.
When their playtime is finished, my children negotiate.
“Just a little rain, Bunda?”
Rain, to me, is fever, cough, medicine at midnight. To him, rain is memory.
Sometimes, and this shocks even me he says yes. And somehow… they don’t dissolve.
After outdoor adventures, he gathers them around his laptop. He lets them watch him play a fantasy game, explaining strategy like a professor of dragons and teamwork.
“See? You don’t attack alone. You wait for your team.”
It is not just a game. It is leadership training disguised as pixels. On weekends, he allows cartoons, supervised, rationed, measured.
But when it is time for hijaiyah, his voice changes.
Firm. Clear. Unnegotiable.
Alif.
Ba.
Ta.
The same man who lets them run in the rain becomes a general of pronunciation.
Balance.
That is his magic.
And then there is our small café. When they sit watching him play, they call for service.
“Bundaaa, milk please.”
“Bundaaa, can I have noodles?”
They sit like customers who forgot they don’t pay rent.I cook. I pour milk. I wipe hands.
Sometimes I want to say, “This café closes at 9 PM.” But then later — the same little boy who demanded snacks notices my heavy eyelids.
“Bunda, sleep first.”
He tucks the blanket around me and his father when the AC is too cold. He gives us a piece of his food if he tastes something delicious.
Sharing.
Not because we asked. Because he saw. Because he learned.
I worry a lot.
I am the mother who counts risks before counting blessings.
But when I step back and watch my husband being their steady ground, I realize something quiet and humbling:
They are not just growing under my protection.
They are growing under his trust.
And perhaps that is why they are learning to be brave and kind at the same time.
This moment, this season of noisy weekends, rainy negotiations, laptop dragons, hijaiyah drills, and café demands… I will cherish it forever.
Because one day the house will be quiet.
And I will miss the customers.
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