Hey You, Young Mom

Hey you, young mom
Who's forever exhausted
Often frustrated
While being delighted
Hey you, who feels no one gets it
(Maybe they do, maybe they don't)
Who wishes for once
Someone would see what she's doing
Feeling
Going through
Who craves empathy, not sympathy

Hey you, mommy
Who feels this is a lonely road
With or without a co-parent
Parts you've to walk alone
There are others like you
Invisibly walking alongside
Feeling alike

Hey you, who craves
A single night of full rest
Who steals moments to call her own
Wishes someone would officially
Permit me-time
You have permission. Go.

Hey you, who physically loves her children
Yet feels her body doesn't fully belong to her
And is instead at the whims and demands of this little rascal
Remember you were one, once?
You and this little thing
Your body feels the separation
As does hers
So gravitating towards each other
Don't mind this transition
You'll miss it once it's through
And you'll have your body back, fully

Hey you, always on the move
Rushing here, there
Always on an elastic band
Tied back home
To your little one
Like you're away on borrowed time
It's okay to feel happy
About being away and on your own
Enjoying the taste of freedom
As much as it's fun to revel
In the reunion
Once back home
You can have the best of both worlds.

Hey, new-age mother
Trying to always better yourself
It's okay to not do it all
To do it now
With your child
There is time, there will be time
Breathe. Pause.
The moment will pass you by
Before you know it
Your child's childhood
Will pass you by
It's okay if the clips don't match
Every once in a while
Heck, every time
(Your pre-teen won't put up with it though. My toddler often doesn't)

Mommy, my dear
It's okay if it isn't all clear
You haven't figured out your act
Are too busy getting by
Day to day
Look, catch your child's gurgle
Doesn't it put everything into perspective?

What you're doing is a big deal,
Even if every mother before you
Has done it
And several fathers too
(Except the birthing and feeding)
I'll make a big deal out of it
Watching your every move
Lauding your every success
The small steps
Of victory. Of growth.
You're not alone
Not one bit.

I want someone
To say all this to me
So I say it to myself instead.

Written on 04 May 2018 at 20:51hrs
On a flight from Mumbai to Chennai

Playschool Pangs II

Dear Zara,

The playschool account would be incomplete without telling you what happened the day after I wrote the post, and the day after that day.

That Thursday night, I tried putting you to sleep by telling you how you need to get up early to go to school, to go play and have fun, make friends and so on. You said, 'But I don't want to go. It's no fun.' I was taken aback. You proclaimed you didn't want the trampoline or the slide in the school either, stuff that I know for certain you thoroughly enjoy. So I was able to shake off your announcement as a passing phase. At least, I hoped it was. Later, I even requested your father to take you to playschool for a few days, to try and see if you would be less clingy with him. But for now, it was just you and me, because he was travelling on work. I knew he would've handled this a lot better. At least that's what I felt. So I looked to him for guidance.

In the morning, Srikrishnan advised me not to read too much into these things, that it would help you if we were matter of fact and light about the matter. An hour later, I messaged him saying I was going to cry. I had just left a sobbing, leaky-nosed you behind in playschool. It was so painful, again. All morning you had been chanting that you didn't want to go to playschool. It was tough for me to be light, to laugh about this. I was torn between giving you your time and being around until then, or just letting you cry, and leave. My deepest values, all education theories floated in my head. 'Let the child take the lead', I had held, always. But for how long? Should I wait around until you happily asked me to leave? Would that time ever come? I didn't have any answers. This process was going against my conviction. Your father suggested I pick you up and gently talk to you about your day, assuring you we were right here. He was aching to do it himself, and would, a few days hence. Unfortunately though, that morning I had a meeting and would be meeting you only after you were picked up and back home.

I put my mind to rest and threw myself into the work meeting. With trepidation, I returned home, wondering how you would be. Turned out you were laughing, playing, waiting for me to pick you up and take you home after my meeting. I heaved a sigh of relief. That evening, your Paati spoke to you about how you did enjoy school but were really not admitting it. We had many conversations too, you and I. Sweta didi shared what she had told your cousin Yuvaan and I tried it with you. Explained to you how you were anyway going to go to school, whether you did it happily or grudgingly was your choice. And that you did enjoy, after all. In another post-dinner chat I told you how I was always here, waiting to play with you once I was done with my 'office kaam', when you returned from Paati-Thatha's house. That evenings and nights and mornings were ours.

Just as I was about to put out the lights for the night, you quietly told me, 'Mamma, I won't cry tomorrow. I will go to school with a smile.' I smiled and kissed you goodnight, surprised and yet wondering if this sentiment would last until morning. As soon as you woke up, you sat up in bed and declared, 'Mamma, I'm not going to cry. I will go to school happily.' My heart gave a whoop of joy. We together went over your schedule from morning to night. You repeated it multiple times, including in the car just before getting dropped at school. You told me one more thing when we were headed there. 'Mamma, I'm going to count to ten. Then you can go, okay?' 'Okay', I said with a smile. True to your word, you got off from my arms, held me tight, and counted slowly to ten. I could sense you were being brave. When you were taking long to reach the end, I told you I had to leave before all the kids came out into the play area for yoga. On reaching 10, you let go and walked a few hesitant steps away from me. You looked back just as I was about to leave, and waved a bye. I smiled at you, feeling choked and proud. You had found your own way. You had indeed taken the lead, and helped this rather conflicted mother out of her quandary.

It has been more than a month and a half now. Your hugs during countdown have slowly loosened. Now I'm the one who hugs you tight and gives you a goodbye kiss, asking for one in turn, while you peacefully, smilingly, walk into the playschool waiting to play with your new friends.

Love,
Mamma

Playschool Pangs

Dear Zara,


Taking you to playschool is so hard. I was slightly nervous about the routine – wayward as I have been in my ways – never once thinking anything else would pose a challenge. Turns out that getting that schedule right isn't the hardest thing, it's what happens after that that is. To leave you there and walk away.

It's what they call the 'settling in period', when they allow us parents to anxiously hover around our little ones. The second day you went there, this cute little Montessori playschool in our neighbourhood, I was told that I need not linger any longer; that you had settled in quick and fast. I was relieved. Saved us both the initial hiccups. I saw a few other kids hollering as they were carried inside by the Akka (helper lady) and bid goodbye to by parents at the gate, feeling bad for the kids and the mothers alike, thanking my stars you weren't one of them. But my respite wasn't to last, just like in the previous crib story (Yes, you promptly came back to the bed and mummy's tummy the next day. Now the tummy can't go to sleep without your touch, it seems. Some strange primal connection this is).

Last Thursday you cried when you were taken away by a teacher. I had been waiting with you in the play area for 20mins already because you didn't let me go, when they finally lured you inside with tricoloured balloons. They shut the glass door once you were in. You turned and realized what was happening and let out a cry. In your tears I at once saw distress mingled with what I perceived to be accusation – 'How could you do this to me?! Leaving me behind with strangers' Sigh. Am I imagining too much? Maybe. I'll never know. When you grow up we'll be the ones telling these stories to you, bereft of the tiny details time will take away from our memories. Hence, this blog, in all its irregularity. Hence this post.

Over the weekend you told me, 'Mamma, I don't want to go to school on Monday. I will miss you.' My heart sank. Eager that you build a positive association with going to school, I accompanied you inside on Monday, then yesterday and again today. Monday, you went in glumly (thank god no tears) after half an hour of my hanging around in the lawn with you.

Yesterday, you rushed into my arms and said, 'Mamma, I'm hugging you tight so no one takes me away from you'. How can one not melt at that? Your small, fragile body in the my big arms. Like a sparrow rushing into a mountain, in search of home. I didn't want anyone to take you away from me either, sweetie. But you had to go to school. And I had to pick up my work. While one teacher (aunty, as you all call them) patiently gave you your '5mins mamma...mamma 3mins more please wait. Mamma, 6mins!', another one came a short while later and carried you away. You cried again. I anxiously peered in through the curtains on the side and tried listening, but I couldn't hear any cries. Someone told me you were sulkily playing in a corner. Haha...my darling.

Today, your crying brought on your cough so I waited around until you had calmed down a bit. You said, after a good deal of playing together, 'Mamma, I prrromise you (yes, that's how you say it) I won't ask you to stay after this. Just 1min more' How do you calculate these things? When the teacher carried you inside, you threw your arms and legs around, screaming at her. 'Leave me alooone!' I wanted to laugh and cry both. I did neither and just quietly slipped out, dil par patthar rakh kar.

The moment you go inside though, your cries disappear. As if it's a switch. You observe, you sulk, you reluctantly, eventually, join in the play. But you don't cry. In those few moments of parting, however, my separation anxiety has washed over me and left a dull heartache behind. 'Bacche toh rote hi hain nursery mein', my mum said. 'I used to have tears in my eyes while dropping kids off to playschool', said my mother-in-law. Another mother whose child is also new at this playschool, and about the same age as Zara, sits on a couch in the cafe next door, casually checking her phone while teachers try and settle in her sobbing child. I look at her calm, smiling face greeting me with a sort of dazed look. How does one do this? How do I do this?!

This really does seem like my settling period, much more than yours.

Love,
The Mamma-who-never-quite-wants-to-leave-or-let-go

P.S. - Last night, while putting you to sleep, you asked why I was still on my phone. I explained to you how one of my closest friends was upset, so I was listening and trying to make him feel better. You thought for a few seconds and then said, 'Mamma, you should call him. He will be happy'. I smiled, taken by your response, and said 'How sweet are you, Zara?!' 'Very', you quipped, and snuggled into me. Wise and cheeky. Quite a combo.