Once Upon A Baby...
I’d trade the world to get my mother back as she was, without dementia. To have her around, telling me that story once again.
My mother frequently recounted my birth story. She stated that I was born in the same apartment where I grew up and now live on the east bank of the Nile in Luxor. Her aunt was her midwife. She wasn’t a professional one but that was normal at the time. (I’m not that old but the world has changed a lot since I was born.)
When my paternal grandmother saw me, she was amazed at how high my forehead was. She went back to her village in the west bank of the Nile to spread the word.
“Go and see the newborn of my elder son! She has a strikingly high forehead that you can see your whole faces on it!”
Of course, everyone got curious about this high-foreheaded newborn girl. Women from my father’s family came over in big groups. Their trip included a minibus, and a ferry from the west to the east bank, then another minibus to our home. Yes, they were that curious to make this long journey just to see my forehead.
As a believer of evil eyes, my mother feared they might harm me through their envious gazes. She wasn’t delighted with their visits. As she knew they would directly head to the bedroom, she intended to hide me somewhere else, putting me on the dining table.
Whenever my mother reached this part of my story, she would look at me and say: “It however seems you were a rebel since you were still a baby. You wouldn’t stay calm and therefore they would follow the crying and find you.”
Growing up, I didn’t like this high forehead. I didn’t like my curly hair either. My family used to compare my hair to my sister’s.
“Why don’t you have straight hair like hers? Use this hair cream to make it silkier. Apply hair masks, add more oils, and tie it. And hide your high forehead with bangs.”
Maybe it’s why I take off hijab when I’m away from Luxor; to shake my hair loose. No ribbon, no ties. Now, I accept my hair and high forehead. I learned to like them as they are and I wouldn’t trade them for anything.
However, I’d trade the world to get my mother back as she was, without dementia. To have her around, telling me that story once again.