I never understood why those dirty dishes keep piling up. But now I do.

It was just another day of Ramadan, another post-iftar hour, bellies full and heavy. Iftar was only the kids and me. Hubby was working the late shift, so he broke his fast at work.

Days like this were extra tiring, as I had to manage everything alone. Chasing my 8-year-old for homework, reminding my teen to do her tasks, prepping dinner, cleaning up and convincing my 4-year-old that he needs another bath. Basically, ensuring everyone is well.

The younger me has probably sorted the kitchen out meticulously, everything cleaned up, spick and span down to the last ladle used for prepping dinner that night. Only then can we all sit down for a decent meal, my mind in peace.

But nowadays, I find myself learning to live with the mess, at least for another few hours, until I find another bout of strength to continue.

As I was enduring a tight tummy, making my Teraweeh and Quran recitations between checking in the kids, I heard the clanking of dishes in the kitchen.

“Maybe I heard it wrong”, I told myself. I ignored it and continued with what I was doing.

Halfway through my recitation, my 12-year-old walked into my bathroom and came out happily with a pump of my Strawberry Shortcake scented hand wash that she loved so much.

I decided to ask.

“Did you just wash the dishes?”

“Uh, you’re welcome?” She nonchalantly replied while washing her hands in the next bathroom.

“Meh, I was bored”, she added as she headed back into her room. Nobody really prepped me for these occasional angsty teenage remarks. But at this point, I am already so used to it that it didn’t really bother me.

Instead, a huge smile came to me, and I felt like a huge burden was lifted. I found a little more space to breathe better again.

“Awhhh, thank you! Can you do it more often next time? Thanks!” I yelled to her jovially from my bed, where I sat hunched over my Quran in my cotton praying garment, my cosy pillows beckoning.

I couldn’t believe it.

First, the fact that a gesture from a bored teenager has actually made my night, and second, that little help in the kitchen has given me so much relief and happiness. And the irony is that I always forgot to ask for it.

I then recalled how things were with my mother.

I loathed that I had to do piles of dishes when I was a teenager. I always wondered — why did she love to pile up the plates? Sometimes it started with just a few. There they were, sitting idly in the kitchen, waiting for more to come. “Why can’t she just take up a few damn minutes to immediately wash them? It can’t be that hard! Ughh!” My teenage voice raged inside.

Well, now I understand.

It indeed takes one to be a parent to understand a parent. In my case, it took me three children to finally understand why things had happened that way.

My mother was me.

Exhausted. Beaten. Needed a break. And somehow, she found some escape by delaying the dishes. Letting things go, embracing the fact that a clean kitchen does not define her or how well she is doing as a person and a mother, and finding moments of liberation in that.

The exhaustion was too much; she could not bear another moment of standing over the sink and soaking her hands in yet another episode of cleaning up.

So she took a break and eventually learned to ask for help. She was taking care of herself, safeguarding as much sanity as she possibly could. She prioritised herself for a moment there. Perhaps it was not easy, but she did it anyway, knowing well that she deserved rescuing from the mundane chores of making a home.

Now that I know, I’m really glad that she did it because it has taught me these important lessons.

The dishes can wait, and that is okay.

And maybe on my lucky days, I actually don’t need to do them at all.