I’m not an orangutan

A daily reminder

The other day my daughter was up for three hours in the middle of the night. I tried, and failed, to get her back to sleep with me, and so then we were up. I made her a snack in the kitchen, helped her go to the bathroom, cleaned up the remnants of dinner I was too exhausted to tackle before bed, set her up with paints, read her books. Finally, sometime around 5 am I was able to coax her back into bed, and back to sleep. Her dad slept on, unawares, only a few hours away from waking up for his workday.

As I felt my daughter’s body grow peaceful and still beside me, the adrenaline of the last few hours finally ebbing from my limbs, I found myself wondering… why didn’t I tap out anytime during those three hours? Her dad and I both work and share childcare duties…so why didn’t I ask for help?

I was one of those days (and those days are every day) when I needed to remind myself… I am not an orangutan.

I hugged my animal body in the lonely night as I drifted off to sleep.

Humans are unique in the world of primates. Not only do we invite other members of our community to hold and care for our infants, our survival absolutely depends on it. Without the sharing of childcare and resourcing of food, the raising of a young human simply wouldn’t be possible.

As human mothers we were built to be supported, from absolutely every angle, by our human communities as we do the hard work of bearing, breastfeeding and caring for a child.

My genetics tells me that I am human.

But sometimes it feels like the world is asking me to be an orangutan. 

Orangutans mother completely alone. Solitary, elusive, and intensively connected to their children, Orangutan mothers raise their offspring entirely by themselves.

For the first two years of their life an orangutan baby literally does not leave their mother’s body. They are carried through the trees on her back and belly. With the orangutan father long gone, orangutan mother and baby pairs move together the forest, climbing in and out of the elusive mists.

Orangutans nurse for up to eight years. For eight years an orangutan mother will make milk for her singular child, teaching them the ways of the world, carrying their weight, and the weight of the world, as she moves through the forest.

Orangutan mothering is stunningly beautiful. If you’ve ever had the opportunity to see pictures or videos of mother/child parings, there is something about it that is profoundly, strikingly tender. Outside of humans, orangutans have the longest developmental period of any primate. And, as you can imagine, the bond between mother and child is deep.

The vision of an orangutan mother, carrying her child as she moves in and out of the veils of the deep rainforest, is a compelling one.

I remember the first time I learned about orangutan mothering, a part of me sighed, “Yes, this feels deeply familiar. And wouldn’t it be easier? If we were simply designed for this, this life that so many of us already lead?”

And yet, I have to remind myself that I am not an orangutan

Over and over as mothers we’re telegraphed that we are meant to take on the brunt of childcare ourselves. To the point where we consciously or unconsciously stop even asking for help (see me at 3 am cleaning the kitchen with my daughter while her dad sleeps).

We think we’re supposed to be that matriarch who can carry her children for as long as they need, providing for them with our bare arms.

And when we can’t, we feel like we’ve failed.

But we’re not orangutans. We were never meant to be orangutans.

We’re human, with all our tenderness and sensitivity and needs.

We’re human.

We need community.

We need alloparents

And we need help.

I think about this as I acknowledge all the mothers out there who have been forced to become orangutan mothers.

Maybe it’s because the father or co-parent is out of the picture.

Or maybe the co-parent is there, but the mother is still carrying the whole invisible load.

Or maybe it was your community who failed you. The network of family, aunties, uncles, grandparents, and friends that said “I’ll be here for you” and yet never showed up.

Or maybe it’s because everything inside of our culture, and the systems that we live in, tells us… you are meant to do this entirely by yourself. And if you can’t carry it, you aren’t a good mother.

I think about this as I’m up with my daughter today at 5 am. As I make her yogurt, then a smoothie, then toast, then eggs. As I order her a new pair of shoes, get her name on the list for a school this fall, coordinate dates with the grandparents.

As I go about the million every-day things, like swinging from tree-to-tree-to-tree in a forest that is both beautiful and endless.

I remind myself that it’s okay to ask for help.

That I need to ask for help.

That asking for help is what makes me human.

Because I’m not an orangutan.

And you aren’t either.

We are human. And we are mothers. And we weren’t designed to it alone.

(Photo Credit: Jim Schulz/Chicago Zoological Society via AP)