“I am strong, see my muskels” my first born loved to flex his puny biceps and strut around. He actually looked like a skinny starving waif. Wrap a tattered dhoti around his midriff and hand him a begging bowl and voila! You would have a poster boy for UN’s third world starving country propoganda posters …
Any mother who has reared sons knows the fascination they have for flaunting their muskels, never mind if it is a puny bicep they are flexing. In their minds they are G.I. Joes, He Men or even Arnold Schwarzeneger. Mine thought he was all of them and more. Yo Joe!
I would dutifully admire them muskels and tell him MY BABY STRONGEST
He needed to hear that, I needed to tell him that convincingly. That is what strength meant to us. I was the mother, he was the son, the alpha male and second born was the baby. In some ways it is still the same. We were a unit, our strength was our love for each other, and complete loyalty. It still is.
What is strength? I don’t think it is those biceps and the six pack abs. But show me them muskels and I will drool over them. I am human ..
Strength is those battle scars we bear, the testimony that we have gone through hell, survived and are ready to fight again. Those scars may be physical, out in the open for others to see, they may be hidden,buried deep inside, coloring all that we see, think or experience, affecting us emotionally, mentally and psychologically.
Or they may be stretch marks from our pregnancies, the knee that got skinned from a fall in the playground … We endured it, it healed perhaps incompletely leaving a mark.
But we survived, and went on to laugh, play, love and live again, did we not?
The point I am making here is that we all are survivors in this battle called life. We have gone through pain, walked on hot coals and bear testimony of the ordeal. We have strength.
So dear reader please let us admire each other, we have been through a lot.
“I am strong, see my muskels”