Learning to Be a Mother

31. Milk Chocolate.

Sambal, spicy flavoring food that is appetizing. I pounded the ingredients now; some fresh red chili, a clove of onions and garlic, as well as tomatoes that are now no longer in shape. Before I had it all, it invited a cough from my first child who was testing in the room until he moved to the living room now.

"What mama cooks, anyway!"

"Sambeell!" I'm squealing.

Maybe Fathan shook his head, then continued his activities again. I was busy cooking from now on, had determined what lunch menu we would eat later; fried tempe Fathan's favorite, sauteed kale, and omelet sheet his favorite brother who had not returned home.

After making it smooth, I poured the chili into the bowl. For a moment I waited for the oil to heat up, then poured the sauce on and sauteed it for a while so that my son did not cough. Afraid of Fathan being distracted by the smell of my cooking.

A few minutes later, my job was done. I intend to approach Fathan who is focused on doing the exam in the living room. Judging from the kitchen, he did not seem to want to be disturbed. As a support for a good mood, I prepared a powdered chocolate milk that I had bought earlier in one of the stalls before cooking.

I used warm water as a solvent, then filled the glass with cooler water. Yes, equate the position of the child who is tense because the exam needs to be cooled through his favorite drink. While stirring the milk solution, I smiled a little, for some reason there was a sense of calm that was bubbled by serving him a glass of milk. It feels like there's been progress from me learning to be a mother.

Finished, I tidied up my clothes for a while, trying to get rid of the smell of chili sauce and other dishes that might stick in some parts. Feeling comfortable, I approached the boy in the living room. Bring him cold chocolate milk to serve, then sit beside him who was testing.

Maybe Fathan realized there was something I brought to the table, he glanced for a moment then smiled sweetly seeing his favorite thing given out of the blue. "Thank you, Ma," she said spontaneously, not removing her smile yet.

I nodded slowly, and I was glad to see him like what I put on the table. While waiting for him to do the daily exams, I looked for some warm and light topics that we could discuss even though Fathan set his sights on one point.

"Is the test hard?"

"It's not hard, Ma. This is Indonesian," replied Fathan took the time to sip chocolate milk is getting colder. "Fathan likes his lesson, a little more done."

My head was mangled, obeying my son's words while occasionally wiping his hair. To be honest, I rarely treat her this warm. As I recall, I used to touch it gently as a form of affection only when Fathan gave a report and said this.

"Ma, Fathan's champion one.",

Besides, I don't remember it. Unlike the sister, I used to treat her gently even though we were often involved in small or big fights. Whether who is right and wrong, Kalista always wins because I give up to improve the situation—persuade him. I still remember how much lowering the ego for his own son was, obviously contrary to his father's principle of always wanting to be right.

They say that men have a competitive soul. No wonder if he saw his father and my older son have a lot of ambition, read a lot of books, or prefer to be alone with his reading in the room. But that does not mean hating the company of today, yes. Sometimes Fathan went outside with a group of friends, although they seemed to often mock Fathan's favorite things, in fact my son was able to adapt well in their environment.

Sometimes, I get confused by my son's last thought. She was clearly different from her Brother, there was nothing in common apart from her almost similar face shape due to being born together. I mean, their interests are different. Between the visionary Fathan— attach great importance to the future of—and his sister who is trying to enjoy life in the present, they live in a different world.

I have to support Fathan's dream, I also have to please Kalista's feelings that he wants a lot. Either in terms of needs that he wants; skincare, internet quota, outfit that is often discussed, or things that smell South Korea. Meanwhile, his sister wants another; self-improvement books, novels, laptops, new writing equipment, and others that lead to learning needs.

I exhale, they are indeed different and must have a way of parenting that is clearly opposite—when their parenting pattern is equated. It's hard too, yeah. But there's also luck because I realized, this is the first time I've thought well and seriously about them in puberty. Ah, the speed of time.

"Done."

I went back to my conscious mind, looking at the notification of thanks for taking the daily exam. This smile was stitched up again, I patted his left shoulder repeatedly.

"Thank you, Fathan."

Fathan smiled sincerely, sweeter and seemed to be able to remember at any time because it was so wide. He seemed enthusiastic about aiming chocolate milk earlier, his phone was placed quickly and then my son took a sip of the drink.

"I'm pulanggg!"

Go home my last child, looking cheerful with wide steps and throw the bag into the room. He does not give priority to the comfort of being seen, as long as it does not interfere and does not scramble things outside the room. Kalista could do anything as he pleased.

Kalista sat on the other sofa looking at Fathan who had just sipped the drink. He seemed to be unintentionally, his face looked surprised that someone had come home.

"Cok was eliminated, anyway? I said I wanted to."

"Not intentionally," said Fathan soberly.

"You want milk."

The woman who was still in uniform stared at my presence, as if to plead her wish granted— was made the same chocolate milk.

"No, make it yourself."

Kalista clucked, "Fathan was made, must be made, right? Maybe he was wasting his time making milk. I'm tired of just getting home from school."

"Bikin myself, I also make my own." Fathan lied.

"No, to be contrived."

I exhaled. Not wanting to invite a spark of anger that could magnify the problem, I got up from the sofa to grant his request; the same glass of chocolate milk. Kalista looked excited to see me go.

"Not polite."

"Appaan, anyway. I'm just asking for milk."

"Mama's not a maid."

"Yes, I'm asking for help!"

"That's not how it is."

"Oh, bacot."

"Calistas!" I warned. Although it is rare for my son to be rude, they should not argue just because of a glass of milk. Moreover, Kalista has just returned home, his emotions can be uncontrolled again. "Sin, Fathan. Don't be noisy."

I rarely tell my first child to be quiet because she is always quiet, unless something feels unfair. But since I was learning to control myself, I could only do my best by following the daily flow. I agree with Kalista's words.

"Ma, I'll see if anyone wants to go home. Can't you, can you?"

While driving her milk to the table, I wondered inwardly before publishing the question directly. Guys, who is Kalista? What's the guy that's been with her since yesterday?

"Biyan."

"Not!" reply quickly. "So, I'll go home."

I just nod.