As You Turn 4

Dear Zara,

You turn more adorable by the day, more than I could ever imagine. You surprise and delight and stun at an alarming rate; we have to try hard to keep up. Today you are a pirate looking for treasure, yesterday you were a librarian ('libralian', as you say it) handing me out my night read, the day before a doctor prescribing eye drops in a certain order, and the day before a fridge-magnet seller. (As I draft this you creep up to me doing goofy moves, running away to the hall as I turn to see.)

You give generous 'Thank You's and heartfelt 'Sorry's, and make me wonder if I do enough of both. Day before, after we shopped an hour for your birthday party return gifts, after I refused you a Grandpa Pig soft toy because you have many and we need another occasion, after you threatened a tantrum and then reconsidered it in the face of my dispassionate, cool-headed response (Go Mommy!), as we walked out of the store and got into the car with your Thatha, you said in the sweetest voice possible 'Thank you, Mamma, for buying me all those return gifts'. It came unexpected, and I was touched. I was in a 'This-is-my-parental-duty, to organize your birthday, buy gifts and return gifts etc.' mode, and you stumped me by thanking me for it. Shows how you're shaping up to be, and you're shaping up to be a beautiful human being, inside-out. Last week you thanked me for ordering you your birthday dress (as per your given specs – white frock with red cherries hanging from green leaves) and assorted accessories (namely, cherry clip, cherry ring, cherry sun-hat. My doc Dr. Cherry Shah who delivered you would be moved)

I want to shower you with all the material things in the world, buy all the Grandpa Pig dolls in the world, and yet I know that would be less a gift, more a disservice to you as a person. What do I give you then? My love, my untiring bear-hugs, my ready kisses and smiles, my gratitude, my forgiveness, and yes, my apologies too, when I need to. My prayers, my blessings, my empathy, my understanding, my listening, and my hopes – these are all yours too. The other day, in the middle of a regular trying toddler-moment with you when I was trying to do something you suddenly remarked, 'Mamma, you are so patient no? How are you so patient?' All the lines on my furrowed brow dissolved and I broke into a laugh – 'Because I am your Mommy. All mommies need to be patient with their babies' 'And I am your baby!' 'Yes, you are.' How are you so graceful that in the middle of trying my patience you acknowledge how much of it I have?! Unsurprisingly, one of your names is Meher, which translates to 'grace'. Hoping some of that rubs off on us adults around you, some more you sprinkle on the world. On another occasion you snuggled into me and declared that I am always there to hold you when you are scared, and asked in a small voice if always will. I don't mind that you got this idea from a Peppa Pig book on her Mummy (+1 to Peppa). I will always hold you, Zara. For I know not another way.

As you turn 4, I am amazed at how sensitive, perceptive, and articulate you are. We have a language that began even before the first word was uttered between us, and so it remains. So it shall always be. You, my darling chatterbox (as you once proclaimed yourself to be, having newly learned the word), don't need to say a thing. Your misty eyes say it, your bowed head (when you feel defeated in light of your unmet demands), your dancing steps ('I'm so excited you're not working today!'), your quivering lips (just before tears break through the dam of your eyes), your singing, honey-sweet voice ('Mammaaa...shu karey chhe?' when I travel and ache to hear it), your tiny palm (as it finds my hand in the dark to rest for the night), your butterfly fingers (that cannot resist touching my tummy, your "favouritest place in the world...because I was there for 9 months") all of you from head to toe. All of me loves all of you.

And then there are moments you remind me of me. Running in front of the stage dancing, unfettered, as your Appa sang on it. The sheer particularness of your demands (cherries had to be hanging from the leaves, could not be floating about), clear likes and dislikes, strong-headedness. Of course your father shares many of these qualities too. So you're a double-dose that way. Saturday, as you danced after Synchrony* was over, I casually brought my hair forward on one side, watching you move delightedly. You watched me, paused, searched for the end of your ponytail, and coyly brought it in the front on one side, giggling to find your hair wrap itself around your neck, because it wasn't long enough and the pony was high. That moment was as flattering as it was humbling. Here you are, wanting to be like me. Here I am, seeing just how much of your own person you already are. So glad I have another year of the metaphorical umbilical cord between us – they say till 5 the child and mother are still connected as one. Let me enjoy this while it lasts. (Of course, you also try to sing the songs your Appa sings and hold the guitar the way he does, but that's his story to tell, not mine)

For all my cribs, all the exhaustion, impatience, annoyance, irritation, feeling overwhelmed and out of depth, you, my dear Zara, remain the single-biggest wonder in my life. The blessing I don't know what I have done to deserve. My Dancing Queen, who began dancing in my belly before coming out into this world. I can only pray to God, to the Universe, to give me the strength to be your rock and your river, continue learning from you as I attempt to teach, let you take the lead and bloom into the magnificent being you are meant to be. God bless you, my child.

Happy Birthday, baby. :) <3