My mom was pregnant with my little sister. I went to my parents’ bedroom to keep her company while my dad was away in the Philippines. I was eight years old and said, “I’m the man of the house now, and I’ll stay right here to make sure that you’re ok.” And with a big, toothy smile, “Can I sleep next to you?”
“No. You kick me when you sleep.” She continued, “After I gave birth to you I got pregnant again with my only son, and you used to kick me until I had a miscarriage. You killed my only son.”

Now with every trip I take to Saudi Arabia there are new kids in the family; Allia, three Jennas, Dallal, and two something or others.
My last uncle got married last year, and is talking about having kids. My two cousins Shethe and Ashwag are my age. They got married two years ago and now they each one year old of their own. And my two other cousins that are three years younger than i am just got married. And all I’m thinking is, I can’t keep up with this. Everyone around me is getting married. It is too much pressure.

My grandma is telling people that she has a single grandchild. Everyone that thinks they have a say in the matter is asking - What are you doing with your life? When will America no longer be in your vocabulary? When are you going to come home, get married, and start a family like everyone else? - Then they tell me, “Being a mother is such a rewarding thing. Your eggs are rotting! You’re so old. If you wait any longer nobody will want you. Are you waiting for Mr. Right White Guy? They’ll never understand you like we do. Those Americans will never understand our culture, our religion, our beliefs. This is your destiny. You marry within us and you have kids, raise them as a good mother would, and obey your husband.”
I get so confused.

All I know is my mother’s attempt at raising me. And I know how it makes me feel...discouraged. And my fear of being my mother discourages me from ever wanting children. And her relationship with my father discourages me from marriage. I imagine myself as a mother and imagine scenarios of what I would and wouldn’t do, how much I would love him/her, and how protective I would be. Then I think about how well off I am now, and it makes me wonder. "is it ok to be like my mother?"
But I’m not ok. Every now and then I remember how my sister and I would comparing the lashes on our backs - who handled it better, making fun of each other if we cried. I don’t recall a single lesson I’d gotten when my mother hit me. All I’ve gotten from these beatings is the knowledge of how cold my mother is, and built up aggression that only comes out when I’m drunk. I really believe that I’d be a good mother, but the possibility of inflicting this on my own child haunts me.